THE  LOST  DAUGHTER; 

AND    OTHER 

STORIBS  OF 

MRS.  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ: 

AUTHOR  OP  "LINDA,"  " COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE,"  "RE^A,"  "EOLINE," 
"PLANTER'S  NORTHERN  BRIDE,"  "LOTE  AFTER  MARRIAGE,"  ETC. 

Complete  in  one  large  volume,  bound  in  cloth,  price  One  Dollar  and  Twtnty- 
ftve  cents  ;  or  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  for  One  Dollar. 

READ  WHAT  SOME  OF  THE  LEADING  EDITOES  SAY  OF  IT; 

"  The  story  is  an  exceedingly  touching  one  of  American  Domestic  life — 
a  story  of  wild  and  diseased  passions,  successfully  contrasted  with  purity 
and  gentleness  of  taste  and  aspect.  Mrs.  Hentz  is  one  of  our  most  dra- 
matic of  female  writers.  She  makes  a  story  as  felicitously  as  any  of  them, 
— knows  the  secret  of  exciting  and  prolonging  the  interest,  and  of  bring- 
ing about  an  appropriate  denouement.  Her  characters  are  drawn  with 
spirit  and  freedom,  and  her  incidents  are  well  selected  for  their  illustra- 
tion."— Southern  Patriot. 

MRS.  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ' S  OTHER  WORKS. 

T.  B.  Peterson  has  iust  published  a  new,  uniform  and  beautiful  edition  of 
the  works  of  Mrs.  Hentz,  printed  on  a  much  better  and  finer  paper,  and  in  far 
superior  and  better  style  to  what  they  have  ever  before  been  issued  in,  (all 
in  uniform  style  with  The  Lost  Daughter,)  copies  of  any  one  or  all  of  which 
will  be  sent  to  any  place  in  the  United  States,  free  of  postage,  on  receipt  of 
remittances.  Each  book  contains  a  beautiful  illustration  of  one  of  the  best 
scenes.  .The  following  are  the  names  of  these  world-wide  celebrated  works : 

EOLINE ;  or,  MAGNOLIA  VALE.  Complete  in  two 
volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in  one 
volume,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.25. 

"  We  do  not  think  that  amongst  American  authors,  there  is  one  more 
pleasing  or  more  instructive  than  Mrs.  Hentz.  This  novel  is  equal  to  any 
which  she  has  written." — Cincinnati  Gazette. 

"A.  charming  and  delightful  story,  and  will  add  to  the  well-merited  re- 
putation of  its  fair  and  gifted  author." — Southern  Literary  Gazette. 

"  It  will  be  found  to  be  the  best  story  which  Mrs.  Hentz  has  ever  given 
to  the  public." — Saturday  Courier. 


ii  MRS.   HEXTZ'S  WORKS. 

THE  BANISHED  SON;  and  other  Stories.  Complete 
in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dol.,  or  bound  in 
one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1 25. 

"The  'Banished  Son'  seems  to  us  the  chef  d'venvre  of  the  collection.  It 
appeals  to  all  the  nobler  sentiments  of  humanity,  is  full  of  action  and 
healthy  excitement,  and  sets  forth  the  best  of  morals." — Charleston  News. 

AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP  BAG,  together  with  large  ad- 
ditions to  it,  written  by  Mrs.  Hentz,  prior  to  her  death, 
and  never  before  published  in  any  former  edition  of  this 
work.  Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One 
Dol.,  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1.25 

"We  venture  to  assert  that  there  is  not  one  reader  who  has  not  been 
made  wiser  and  better  by  its  perusal — who  has  not  been  enabled  to  treasure 
up  golden  precepts  of  morality,  virtue,  and  experience,  as  guiding  princi- 
ples of  their  own  commerce  with  the  world." — American  Courier. 

LOVE  AFTER  MARRIAGE ;  and  other  Stories.  Com- 
plete in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  priceOne  Dol.,  or  bound 
in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

"  This  is  a  charming  and  instructive  story — one  of  those  beautiful  efforts 
that  enchant  the  mind,  refreshing  and  strengthening  it." — City  Item. 
"  The  work  before  us  is  a  charming  one." — Boston  Evening  Journal. 

MARCUS  WARLAND;  or,  THE  LONG  MOSS 
SPRING.  A  Tale  of  the  South.  Complete  in  two  vo- 
lumes, paper  cover,  price  One  Dol.,  or  bound  in  one  volume, 
cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

"  ETery  succeeding  chapter  of  this  new  and  beautiful  nourellette  of  Mrs. 
Hentz  increases  in  interest  and  pathos.  We  defy  any  one  to  read  aloud 
the  chapters  to  a  listening  auditory,  without  deep  emotion,  or  producing 
many  a  pearly  tribute  to  its  truthfulness,  pathos,  and  power." — Am.  Courier. 

"It  is  pleasant  to  meet  now  and  then  with  a  tale  like  this,  which  seeing 
rather  like  a  narrative  of  real  events  than  a  creature  of  the  imagination." 
— N.  Y.  Commercial  Advertiser. 

COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;  or,  THE  JOYS 
AND  SORROWS  OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  With  a 
Portrait  of  the  Author.  Complete  in  two  large  volumes, 
paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume, 
cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

"This  work  will  be  found,  on  perusalby  all,  to  be  one  of  the  most  exciting, 
interesting,  and  popular  works  that  has  ever  emanated  from  the  American 
Press.  It  is  written  in  a  charming  style,  and  will  elicit  through  all  a 
thrill  of  deep  and  exquisite  pleasure.  It  is  a  work  which  the  oldest' and 
the  youngest  may  alike  read  with  profit.  It  abounds  with  the  most  beauti- 
ful scenic  descriptions ;  and  displays  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  all 


MRS.  HEITTZ'S  WORKS.  ill 

phases  of  human  character;  all  the  characters  being  exceedingly  well 
drawn.  It  is  a  delightful  hook,  full  of  incidents,  oftentimes  bold  and 
startling,  and  describes  the  warm  feelings  of  the  Southerner  in  glowing 
colors.  Indeed,  all  Mrs.  Hentz's  stories  aptly  describexSouthern  life,  and 
are  highly  moral  in  their  application.  In  this  field  Mrs.  Hentz  wields  a 
keen  sickle,  and  harvests  a  rich  and  abundant  crop.  It  will  be  found  in 
plot,  incident,  and  management,  to  be  a  superior  work.  In  the  whole 
range  of  elegant  moral  fiction,  there  cannot  be  found  any  thing  of  more 
inestimable  value,  or  superior  to  this  work,  and  it  is  a  gem  that  will  well 
repay  a  careful  perusal.  The  Publisher  feels  assured  that  it  will  give 
entire  satisfaction  to  all  readers,  encourage  good  taste  and  good  morals, 
and  while  away  many  leisure  hours  with  great  pleasure  and  profit,  and  be 
recommended  to  others  by  all  that  peruse  it." 

LINDA.  THE  YOTJNG  PILOT  OF  THE  BELLE 
CREOLE.  Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price 
Oue  Dol.,  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

"We  hail  with  pleasure  this  contribution  to  the  literature  of  the  South. 
Works  containing  faithful  delineations  of  Southern  life,  society,  and 
scenery,  whether  in  the  garb  of  romance  or  in  the  soberer  attire  of  simple 
narrative,  cannot  fail  to  have  a  salutary  influence  in  correcting  the  false 
impressions  which  prevail  in  regard  to  our  people  and  institutions  ;  and 
our  thanks  are  due  to  Mrs.  Hentz  for  the  addition  she  has  made  to  this  de- 
partment of  our  native  literature.  We  cannot  close  without  expressing  a 
hope  that  'Linda'  may  be  followed  by  many  other  works  of  the  same  class 
from  the  pen  of  its  gii'ted  author." — Southern  Literary  Gazette. 

ROBERT  GRAHAM.  The  Sequel  to,  and  continuation 
of  Linda.  Complete  in  two  large  volumes,  paper  cover, 
price  One  Dol.,  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

"We  cannot  admire  too  much,  nor  thank  Mrs.  Hentz  too  sincerely  for 
the  high  and  ennobling  morality  and  Christian  grace,  which  not  only  per- 
vade her  entire  writings,  but  which  shine  forth  with  undimmed  beauty  in 
the  new  novel,  Robert  Graham.  It  sustains  the  character  which  is  very 
difficult  to  well  delineate  in  a  work  of  fiction — a  religious  missionary.  All 
who  read  the  work  will  bear  testimony  to  the  entire  success  of  Mrs.  Hentz." 
— Boston  Transcript. 

"A  charming  novel ;  and  in  point  of  plot,  style,  and  all  the  other  char- 
acteristics of  a  readable  romance,  it  will  compare  favorably  with  almost 
any  of  the  many  publications  of  the  season." — Literary  Gazette. 

THE  PLANTER'S  NORTHERN  BRIDE.  With  illus- 
trations. Complete  in  two  large  volumes,  paper  cover, 
COO  pages,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume, 
cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

"We  have  seldom  been  more  charmed  by  the  perusal  of  a  novel;  and  we 
desire  to  commend  it  to  our  readers  in  the  strongest  words  of  praise  that 
our  vocabulary  affords.  The  incidents  are  well  varied;  the  scenes  beauti- 
fully described;  and  the  interest  admirably  kept  up.  But  the  moral  of  the 
book  is  its  highest  merit.  The  'Planter';}  Northern  Brido'  should  be  as 


iv  MRS.  HENTZ'S  WORKS. 

welcome  as  the  dove  of  peace  to  every  fireside  in  the  Union.  It  cannot  ba 
read  without  a  moistening  of  the  eyes,  a  softening  of  the  heart,  and  a  miti- 
gation of  sectional  and  most  unchristian  prejudices." — N.  Y.  Mirror. 

"It  is  unquestionably  the  most  powerful  and  important,  if  not  the  most 
charming  work  that  has  yet  flowed  from  her  elegant  pen  ;  and  though  evi- 
dently founded  upon  the  all-absorbing  subjects  of  slavery  and  abolitionism, 
the  genius  and  skill  of  the  fair  author  have  developed  new  views  of  golden 
argument,  and  flung  around  the  whole  such  a  halo  of  pathos,  interest,  and 
beauty,  as  to  render  it  every  way  worthy  the  author  of  'Linda,'  'Marcua 
Warland,'  'Rena,'  and  the  numerous  other  literary  gcins  from  the  same 
author." — American  Courier. 

"Themostdelightful  and  remarkable  book  of  the  day." — Boston  Traveler. 

"Written  with  remarkable  vigor,  and  contains  many  passages  of  real 
eloquence.  We  heartily  commend  it  to  general  perusal." — Newark  Eagle. 

RENA  ;  or,  THE  SNOW  BIRD.  A  Tale  of  Real  Life. 
Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dol.,  or 
bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

'"Rena;  or,  the  Snow  Bird'  elicits  a  thrill  of  deep  and  exquisite  pleasure, 
even  exceeding  that  which  accompanied  'Linda,'  which  was  generally  ad- 
mitted to  bo  the  best  story  ever  written  for  a  newspaper.  That  was  certainly 
high  praise,  but  'Rena'  takes  precedence  even  of  its  predecessor,  and,  in 
both,  Mrs.  Lee  He.Hz  has  achieved  a  triumph  of  no  ordinary  kind.  It  is  not 
that  old  associations  bias  our  judgment,  for  though  from  the  appearance, 
years  since,  of  the  famous  'Mob  Cap'  in  this  paper,  we  formed  an  exalted 
opinion  of  the  womanly  and  literary  excellence  of  the  writer,  our  feelings 
have,  in  the  interim,  had  quite  sufficient  leisure  to  cool;  yet,  after  the 
lapse  of  years,  we  have  continued  to  maintain  the  same  literary  devotion 
to  this  best  of  our  female  writers.  The  two  last  productions  of  Mrs.  Lee 
Hentz  now  fully  confirm  our  previously  formed  opinion,  and  we  unhesi- 
tatingly commend  'Reua,'  now  published  in  book  form,  in  beautiful  style, 
by  T.  B.  Peterson,  as  a  story  which,  in  its  varied,  deep,  and  thrilling  in- 
terest, has  no  superior." — America*  Courier. 

HELEN  AND  ARTHUR.  Complete  in  two  volumes, 
paper  cover,  price  OiieDol.,  or  bound  in  one  volume, 
cloth  gilt,  $1.25. 

"A  story  of  domestic  life,  written  in  Mrs.  Hentz's  best  vein.  The  de- 
tails of  the  plot  are  skilfully  elaborated,  and  many  passages  are  deeply 
pathetic."—1  Advertiser. 

"As  a  high-toned  novel  it  possesses  throughout  a  most  touching  and 
thrilling  inii-n^t.  tar  :il><iv.-  tln>  level  of  the  novels  of  the  dny.  All  are  de- 
lighted who  read  it." — Coin-in: 

f3f  Copies  of  either  edition  of  any  of  the  foregoing  works  will  bo  sent 
to  any  person,  to  any  part  of  the  United  States,  free  of  postage,  on  their 
remitting  the  price  of  the  ones  they  may  wish,  to  the  publisher,  in  a  letter. 

Pnblishcd  and  for  Sale  by  T.  B.  PETERSON, 

No.  306  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia. 


THE    LOST    DAUGHTER. 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER. 


rtr  Stories  of  %  peart. 


BY  MRS.  CAROLINE  LEE  HEHTZ. 

AUTHOR  OF  "LINDA,"  "REN A,"  "LOVE  AFTER  MARRIAGE,"  "ROBEPT 
GRAHAM,"  "EOLINE,"  "PLANTER'S  NORTHERN  BRIDE,"  ETC. 


"Oh!  she  was  all! 

My  fame,  my  friendship,  and  my  love  of  anas, 
All  stoop'd  to  her ;  my  blood  was  her  possession : 
Deep  in  the  secret  foldings  of  my  heart, 
She  liv'd  with  life,  and  far  the  dearer  she." 

Young's  Revenge. 

"To  say  helov'd, 

Was  to  affirm  what  oft  his  eye  avouch'd, 
What  many  an  action  testified,  and  yet, 
What  wanted  confirmation  of  his  tongue." 

JT.  Sheridan  Knowlts. 


T.  B.  PETERSON,  NO.  306  CHESTNUT  STREET. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  ysar  1857,  by 
T.    B.    PETEESON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for  the 
Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


CONTENTS. 


PAOR 

The  Lost  Daughter, 9 

The  Maiden  of  Judea, 66 

The  Pea-Green  Taffeta, 71 

The  Purple  Satin  Dress, 81 

The  Eed  Velvet  Bodice, 92 

The  Snow  Flakes, 107 

The  Soldier's  Bride, 109 

De  Lara's  Bride 123 

The  Premature  Declaration  of  Love, 125 

Aunt  Patty's  Scrap-Bag, 145 


THE    LOST    DAUGHTER: 


CHAPTER  I. 

IT  was  night;  Father  Angelo  sat  alone  in  his  hermitage, 
the  light  of  a  solitary  lamp  illuminating  his  august  figure. 
An  open  Bible  lay  upon  his  knee,  his  arms  were  folded 
across  his  breast,  while  his  upturned  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  dark  ceiling  which  arched  above  him.  It  was  a  night 
of  winds  and  clouds ;  the  foliage  of  the  trees  swept  sigh- 
ingly against  the  uncurtained  windows,  the  rushing  sound 
of  swollen  waters  came  hurriedly  and  mourningly  on  the 
ear,  and  the  low,  plaintive  howl  of  the  watch-dog  rose 
when  the  sobs  of  the  gale  subsided,  as  if  to  tell  his  master 
of  the  desolate  aspect  of  all  things  abroad.  Every  thing 
within  wore  the  sober,  gray  tint  of  the  rock  near  which 
the  little  cabin  was  moored.  The  walls  were  of  a  dim 
gray ;  a  robe  of  gray  serge,  confined  around  the  waist  by 
a  leathern  band,  covered  the  majestic  figure  of  Father 
Angelo,  and  his  long,  gray  locks  and  flowing  beard 
mingled  their  silvery  shadows  with  the  folds  of  his  monk- 
like  robe.  There  was  one  object  which  stood  out  dark  and 
imposing  in  the  twilight  dimness  of  the  apartment,  and 
that  was  an  ancient-looking  organ,  whose  gilded  ar.d  massy 
pipes,  dim  with  age,  seemed  coeval  with  the  ancestral- 
looking  being  who  inhabited  that  lone  spot.  All  the  light 
streamed  around  the  head  and  bust  of  the  hermit,  glim- 
mering on  the  pages  which  lay  unfolded  upon  his  knee,  and 
falling,  like  a  dim  fringe  of  faded  gold,  round  the  edge  of 
his  ash-colored  raiment. 

All  at  once,  a  faint,  wailing  cry,  heard  at  the  very  door 
of  the  cabin,  mingled  with  the  sighs  of  the  wind.  Father 
Angelo  started  from  his  devout  abstraction,  and  bent  his 
ear  in  the  direction  of  the  sound.  At  first,  he  thought  it 

O) 


10  THE   LOST  DAUGHTER. 

the  moan  of  some  wandering  night-bird,  then  the  low 
whine  of  the  watch-dog's  dream  ;  but  it  grew  louder  and 
more  distinct,  and  was  evidently  the  expressiou  of  human 
weakness  and  suffering.  The  hermit  arose,  while  his  tall 
form  towered  grandly  upward  within  the  low  walls,  and, 
tightening  the  girdle  round  his  waist,  as  if  strengthening 
himself  for  some  unknown  conflict,  he  opened  the  door, 
through  which  a  stormy  gust  came  rushing,  threatening  to 
extinguish  his  lamp,  whose  black,  unsnuffed  wick  indicated 
the  long  reverie  in  which  he  had  been  indulging. 

"  Father  of  Mercies  I"  exclaimed  he,  as  he  bent  over 
the  threshold,  while  the  wail  ascended,  as  from  under  a 
weight  of  down.  He  stooped  lower  and  lower,  then  bent 
one  knee,  and  stretched  his  arms  toward  a  white  object 
lying  right  on  the  rocky  steps  of  the  door.  He  raised  it 
with  trembling  hands,  and  bore  it  to  the  light.  Just  as 
he  reached  the  lamp,  it  struggled,  the  downy  wrapper  fell 
from  the  upper  part,  a  pair  of  waxen  white  arms  broke 
loose  from  the  envelop,  and  a  little  cherub  infant  face 
beamed  upon  the  sight.  Unlike  those  of  youth  and 
maturity,  the  tears  of  infancy  leave  no  disfiguring  traces 
on  the  moist  cheeks  ;  they  are  rather  like  the  dew  on  the 
young  flower,  making  it  brighter  and  fairer  as  sooa  as  it  is 
exhaled  by  the  sun.  Father  Angelo  continued  to  gaze 
down  on  his  strange  burden  in  an  ecstacy  of  wonder.  It 
was  the  first  time  infant  innocence  had  ever  been  cradled 
in  his  powerful  arms ;  the  first  time  its  pure  breath, 
mingling  with  his,  had  penetrated,  like  a  sweet  south  wind, 
to  his  innermost  spirit,  whispering  of  heaven  and  heavenly 
things.  Pleased  with  its  transfer  from  darkness  to  light, 
and  its  release  from  the  smothering  folds  that  mantled  its 
face,  the  infant  fixed  its  soft,  bright  eyes  on  the  face  of  the 
hermit  with  a  look  so  helpless  and  confiding,  it  thrilled 
through  his  thick  gray  serge  robe,  and  made  him  clasp  the 
child  closer  to  his  breast.  Feeling  the  grateful  warmth, 
the  infant  twisted  its  little  dimpled  fingers  in  the  silvery 
beard  that  flowed  down  like  a  rill  on  its  bosom. 

"Father  of  the  fatherless!"  cried  he,  lifting  his  eyes, 
which,  by  a  strange  fascination,  had  been  riveted  on  the 
helpless  being  before  him,  in  a  heavenward  direction,  "i& 
it  thou  who  has  sent  this  innocent  one  to  me — me,  the 
aged  and  the  lone?  Have  the  clouds  round  about  thy 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  H 

throne  opened,  and  one  of  thy  cherubs  winged  its  way 
from  Paradise  to  this  rock-built  nest  of  mine  ?  Poor,  little 
innocent !"  continued  he,  again  fixing  his  prayerful  eyes  on 
its  fair,  still  brow,  "  what  a  home  for  thee  !  How  can  this 
breast,  so  long  closed  to  every  earthly  affection,  cherish  a 
tender  nursling  like  thee,  who  should  even  now  be  slum- 
bering on  a  mother's  gentle  bosom  ?  Poor,  wind-blown 
blossom,  thou  hast  fallen  on  a  bleak  and  barren  soil  I" 

The  deep  voice  of  the  hermit,  softened  by  emotion,  mur- 
mured gently  in  the  infant's  ear — for,  young  as  it  was,  it 
was  susceptible  to  the  impression  of  human  kindness — and 
It  looked  in  his  face  and  smiled.  Has  any  sunbeam  ever 
visited  this  darkened  world  of  ours  half  so  beautiful  as  the 
smile  of  infancy  ?  The  little  rose-leaf  lips  curling  so 
delicately,  the  clear,  translucent  eye  lighted  up  with  such 
heavenly  lustre,  the  soft,  round  cheek  dimpling  and  smooth- 
ing, and  dimpling  again,  like  the  play  of  waters  in  the 
sun,  while  a  tender,  brooding  sound  issues  from  the  dove- 
like  throat.  How  lovely,  how  touching  this  assemblage 
of  infant  charms  !  Father  Angelo  felt  his  very  soul  dis- 
solving within  him.  How  strange  he  looked,  that  tall, 
monklike,  sublime  old  man,  holding  with  such  tender  care, 
the  frail,  down-wrapped  foundling  !  So  absorbed  was  he 
in  his  novel  emotions,  he  did  not  heed  the  opening  of  a 
side  door,  or  the  entrance  of  a  woman  dressed  in  a  peas- 
ant's garb,  evidently  of  a  subordinate  rank. 

"  The  Lord  save  us  !"  she  exclaimed,  when,  after  step- 
ping cautiously  forward,  she  beheld  the  smiling  babe 
cooing  in  her  master's  arms — "  the  Lord  save  us !"  she 
continued,  elevating  both  hands  parallel  with  her  eyes, 
"  how  came  that  weanling  here  ?" 

"  The  Lord,  whom  you  so  lightly  invoke,  only  knows," 
answered  Father  Angelo.  "  Take  the  child,  Naomi.  To 
your  care  I  commit  it.  As  you  would  make  a  golden  bed 
in  heaven,  let  your  breast  be  a  pillow  of  down  to  this  poor 
deserted,  but  Heaven-sent  child." 

He  laid  it  gently  in  Naomi's  arms,  then  lighting  his 
lantern,  took  his  oaken  staff,  and  went  forth  into  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night. 

"  Who  knows,"  thought  he,  "  but  the  desolate  mother 
may  even  now  be  wandering  near,  to  learn  the  fate  of  her 
offspring  ?  God  often  works  out  bis  holy  will  by  human 


12  THE  LOST  DAUGHTER. 

instruments.  Some  one  must  have  left  that  forlorn  one  at 
my  door,  who  doubtless  needs  our  cherishing  care  as  much, 
nay,  more ;  for  nothing  but  abandonment  and  despair 
could  have  prompted  a  deed  so  rash." 

He  held  the  lantern  so  as  to  illuminate  the  shadows 
which  hung  round  the  jagged,  massy,  and  moss-grown 
rocks,  against  which  the  cabin  leaned,  and  by  which,  in 
front,  it  was  partially  hidden ;  but  no  form  was  concealed 
in  the  gloom.  Then  lowering  it,  so  that  its  light  streamed 
upon  the  ground,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  waters  that, 
made  turbid  by  the  late  rains,  rolled  dark  and  sullen, 
threatening  to  overflow  the  banks,  and  dashing  headlong 
and  foaming  over  a  bed  of  rocks  just  below  the  cabin. 
With  a  troubled  spirit,  he  approached  nearer  and  nearer 
the  stream,  which  looked  darker  and  darker  in  contrast 
with  the  rays  that  flashed  upon  it  in  a  red  line  with  comet- 
like  brilliancy.  The  dull,  heavy,  continuous  gurgling  of 
the  waters  struck  coldly  on  the  heart  of  the  hermit — it 
sounded  so  dirge-like  and  sad,  so  much  like  a  funeral  wail 
over  the  drowning  or  the  dead.  There  was  one  spot  where 
the  rocks  made  a  kind  of  dam,  and  where  the  current 
drifted  strongest,  as  if  angry  with  the  obstacle  which 
impeded  its  course.  There  he  beheld  an  object  on  which 
he  at  once  concentrated  his  gaze  with  an  intensity  of 
horror  it  is  impossible  to  describe.  A  woman,  whose  head 
and  shoulders  rested  on  the  bank,  against  which  the  waves 
had  dashed  her,  lay  with  white,  still  face,  that  gleamed 
ghastly*and  cold  above  her  dark-colored  garments,  over 
which  the  water  foamed.  Father  Angelo,  groaning  at 
the  realization  of  all  his  fears,  placed  his  lantern  on  the 
ground,  and,  stooping  down,  endeavored  to  raise  the  life- 
less body  before  him.  The  long  hair,  sweeping  down, 
twisted  with  the  slender  shrubs  that  fringed  the  bank,  and 
arrested  his  movements.  With  a  shudder,  he  disentangled 
the  lifeless  and  dripping  locks,  and,  leaving  his  lantern 
behind,  he  turned  with  hasty  step  toward  the  cabin. 

For  twenty  years,  Father  Angelo  had  slept  undisturbed 
in  that  lone  spot,  his  only  inmate  the  faithful  domestic  who 
had  followed  him  to  the  hermitage  he  had  chosen  as  a 
retreat  from  the  world  and  its  cares.  And  now,  with  a 
helpless  infant  on  one  side,  and  a  drowned  woman  on  the 
other,  he  stood  for  a  moment  bewildered  and  horror- 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTEB.  13 

stricken.  But  Naomi,  who  was  as  remarkable  for  the 
energy  as  the  fidelity  of  her  character,  deposited  the  now 
sleeping  infant  on  a  bed  of  blankets,  and  assisted  her  mas- 
ter in  his  efforts  to  awaken  the  apparently  extinguished 
spark  of  life  in  the  pale  and  ghastly  body  of  the  stranger. 
But,  after  hours  of  fruitless  endeavor,  they  ceased,  under 
the  conviction  that  there  was  but  one  Being  who  could  ani- 
mate that  cold  form,  and  restore  the  mother  to  her  child. 

"Let  the  dead  rest,"  said  Father  Angelo,  solemnly; 
"vain  is  the  help  of  man.  Compose  her  limbs  for  the 
grave,  Naomi,  for  "she  hath  no  more -place  with  the  living. 
I  go  to  pray  that  this  mournful  event  may  be  sanctified  to 
our  everlasting  good." 

Naomi  was  left  alone  with  the  dead  mother  and  the 
sleeping  infant.  The  soft,  warm  breathings  of  the  latter 
stole  balmily  on  an  atmosphere  which  the  presence  of 
death  had  chilled,  and  neutralized  its  power.  Naomi's 
strong  mind  resisted  the  debasing  superstition  common  to 
her  class,  and,  while  she  set  herself  gravely  and  mourn- 
fully to  her  task,  no  weak  terror  of  the  helpless  and 
motionless  being  before  her — alas !  being  it  could  no 
longer  be  called — benumbed  her  hand  or  glazed  her  eye. 
The  poor  victim  was  beautiful  and  fair  to  look  upon.  She 
seemed  to  have  died  without  a  struggle,  for  her  features 
were  placid ;  and,  though  a  faint  violet  tinge  shaded  her 
mouth,  a  gentle  smile  lingered  round  the  lips.  It  was 
only  in  the  half-closed,  glassy,  soulless  eyes  that  the  tri- 
umph of  death  was  seen ;  all  else  seemed  the  serenity  of 
sleep.  Naomi  wrapped  the  body  in  a  linen  sheet,  while 
she  dried  the  garments  saturated  in  the  stream.  They 
were  of  the  finest  material,  and  showed  the  wearer  belonged 
to  no  vulgar  class. 

All  night,  Naomi  kept  watch  over  the  sleeping  and  the 
dead.  The  morning  sunbeams  lighted  up  the  pallid  face 
of  the  suicide  ;  its  evening  rays  fell  upon  her  grave. 

The  infant,  thus  cradled  by  Providence  in  a  rocky  nest, 
found  therein  the  down  of  tenderness,  soft  as  that  which 
broods  over  the  unfledged  bird.  There  was  nothing  about 
it  to  indicate  its  parents'  names ;  but  Naomi  discovered  a 
paper  in  its  bosom,  which  she  gave  to  Father  Augelo.  It 
contained  these  few  thrilling  words  : — 

"A  wife,  forsaken  by  her  husband,  who,  in  the  extremity 


^4  THE  LOST  DAUGHTER. 

of  her  despair,  is  about  to  commit  her  soul  unsummoned 
into  the  hands  of  the  great  and  dreadful  God,  intrusts  her 
child  to  thy  keeping.  I  have  heard  of  thy  goodness  and 
sanctity,  and  I  come,  a  heart-broken  pilgrim,  to  lay  my 
offering  at  thy  feet.  Reject  it  not,  as  thou  wouldst  not  be 
rejected  by  thy  Saviour,  when  soul  and  body  are  parting. 
Far  from  that  world  where  my  happiness  has  been  wrecked, 
let  her  be  nurtured  and  sheltered.  If  possible,  let  her  never 
be  exposed  to  the  influence  of  human  passion.  I  dedicate 
her  to  God.  I  intrust  her  to  thee.  The  name  she  bears 
is  unhallowed,  given  with  the  baptism  of  a  mother's  tears. 
Let  it  perish  with  me,  for  it  is  my  own.  Man  of  God, 
pray  for  the  s^ul  that,  too  feeble  to  withstand  the  ills  of 
life,  is  yet  strong  enough  to  rush  into  an  awful  eternity." 

This  sad  and  only  relic  of  the  unhappy  and  misguided 
being  who  had  left  him  so  strange  a  legacy,  was  carefullj 
preserved,  as  it  might  hereafter  furnish  a  clue  to  the  birth 
of  the  infant. 

"  She  shall  be  called  Blanche,"  said  the  hermit,  while 
his  quivering  lips  and  moistened  eyes  were  eloquent  of 
the  past.  Then  taking  the  child,  and  raising  it  in  his 
arms  toward  heaven,  he  added,  in  a  solemn  voice,  "  Oh  1 
Thou,  Tt&ose  spirit  did  once  descend  in  the  form  of  a  dove 
on  the  head  of  the  Incarnate,  let  its  wings  hover  over  this 
innocent  infant,  and  save  it  from  the  polluting  influence  of 
sin  and  passion !  I  renew  the  dedication  made  by  its 
dying  mother,  and  lay  this  spotless  lamb,  as  a  living  sacri- 
fice, on^hine  holy  altar  1" 

Thus  consecrated  by  prayer,  this  foster-child  of  destiny 
was  received  into  the  deep  shades  of  Rockrest ;  and  there 
bloomed  into  childhood,  knowing  nothing  of  the  world 
beyond  the  wild  stream  that  bounded  the  solitary's  seques- 
tered domain.  The  cabin  was  situated  in  a  kind  of  wil- 
derness, far  from  the  public  road,  and  it  was  only  by  fol- 
lowing the  course  of  the  stream  the  hapless  suicide  could 
have  found  that  unfrequented  spot.  Naomi,  who  pos- 
sessed that  vigorous  age  which  partakes  of  the  nature  of 
eternal  youth,  attended  to  all  the  wants  of  the  household, 
which  were  indeed  few,  and  chiefly  supplied  by  the  fruits 
and  vegetables  which  flourished  under  her  careful  hand. 
About  once  a  week,  she  appeared  with  a  large  basket  ou 
her  arm,  winding  along  a  by-path,  on  her  way  to  the  neai 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  15 

est  town,  where  she  could  obtain  all  needed  additions 
to  their  simple  store.  During  her  absence,  the  young 
Blanche  would  remain  with  Father  Angelo,  for  whom  she 
already  manifested  the  most  tender  and  fervent  attachment. 
She  would  sit  for  hours  on  a  little  stool  at  his  feet,  listen- 
ing to  the  music  of  the  organ,  while  he  drew  forth  its 
solemn,  religious  notes,  till  along,  deep  sigh,  bursting  from 
the  very  heart  of  the  child,  showed  that  she  was  oppressed 
by  the  heavy  grandeur  of  the  strains  ;  then  he  would  take 
her  in  his  arms,  and  placing  her  little  delicate  fingers  on  the 
keys,  she  smiled  as  the  soft  tones  gushed  from  under  them, 
believing  them  all  her  own,  and  nestling  her  rosy  cheek  in 
his  long  white  beard,  looked  like  a  flower  amid  Alpine 
snows.  As  she  grew  older,  and  her  thoughts  found  ex- 
pression, it  was  the  most  interesting  thing  in  the  world  to 
watch  the  development  of  a  mind,  unfolding  under  such 
peculiar  circumstances  and  strange  influences.  In  the 
midst  of  solitude,  the  companion  of  age,  she  dreamed  not 
of  the  existence  of  childhood  or  youth.  To  her,  Father 
Angelo  was  the  incarnation  of  beauty  and  power,  and  she 
clung  to  him  with  a  love,  and  looked  up  to  him  with  a 
worship,  such  as  the  creature  feels  for  the  Creator.  He 
talked  to  her  of  God :  she  beheld  her  God  in  him,  his 
goodness  and  glory,  his  majesty  and  love ;  and  he  did, 
indeed,  resemble,  in  lineament  and  expression,  the  magnifi- 
cent figures  which  Raphael's  bold  hand  has  sketched  of 
Jehovah  presiding  over  the  birth  of  Creation,  and  calling 
out  light  from  the  gloom  of  chaos.  He  was  old  -r  but  his 
old  age  was  that  of  the  rock  which  sheltered  him.  firm 
and  strong.  It  was  that  of  the  everlasting  mountain, 
covered  with  perpetual  snow,  that  gives  one  an  impression 
of  power  and  duration.  His  ample  forehead,  covered  with 
living  snow,  was  a  tablet  grooved  by  the  hand  of  time, 
where  hieroglyphics  were  traced  more  sublime  than  Egyp- 
tian priesthood  ever  knew.  His  eye,  dark,  grave,  and 
serene,  had  a  depth  of  meaning  in  its  solemn  light  the 
sounding  line  of  thought  could  scarcely  fathom.  It  had 
the  upward  glance  of  prayer,  the  downward  gaze  of  in- 
tense meditation  ;  seldom  did  it  seem  fixed  on  any  present 
object,  except  the  little  Blanche,  and  then  language  could 
not  describe  its  sad,  earnest,  pitying  expression. 

The  first  time  Blanche  ever  saw  herself,  she  was  stuid- 


IQ  THE  LOST  DAUGHTER. 

ing  by  Father  Angelo  on  the  borders  of  the  stream  whose 
waters  had  been  her  mother's  winding-sheet.  It  was  a 
clear,  sunny  day,  and  glass  is  not  more  translucent  than 
the  clear,  bine  surface  that  reflected  the  cherub  form  of 
the  child  and  the  venerable  figure  of  the  hermit,  hand  in 
hand,  the  most  beautiful  personification  of  childhood  and 
age  that  perhaps  ever  stood  side  by  side. 

Blanche  bent  over  the  stream,  and  smiled  on  her  own 
sweet  image.  The  sweet  image  smiled  back  again.  She 
stretched  out  her  fair,  dimpled  arras,  and  the  fair,  watery 
arms  responded  with  the  same  loving  movement. 

" Look,  father,  look  1"  she  cried,  "there  is  you;  and 
there — who  is  that  little  one  standing  where  I  am,  too  ?" 

"  It  is  yourself,  my  dear  child.  The  water  is  like  glass, 
and  gives  back  your  own  image  as  well  as  mine.  As  you 
see  me  on  the  bank  and  in  the  stream,  so  do  I  behold  two 
little  Blanches." 

"But  why  didn't  God  make  me  like  you  ?"  asked  the 
child.  "  Why  didn't  he  make  another  like  me  ?  Oh, 
Father,  I  love  myself  down  in  the  water  !  I  want  to  take 
hold  of  myself.  Can  I  ?» 

And,  stooping  over,  the  child  would  have  fallen,  de- 
stroying the  mirror  and  her  own  life,  had  not  the  hermit 
held  her  back  ;  and,  raising  her  in  his  arms,  he  sat  down 
under  an  aged  oak,  and  talked  to  her  of  the  great  Maker 
of  all  things  till  her  young  spirit  glowed  within  her.  He 
told  her  as  she  saw  her  own  image  in  the  water,  God 
could  see  his  image  in  her  heart  while  it  was  pure  and 
clear  like  that  water ;  but  if  sin  entered  and  polluted  her 
thoughts  he  would  turn  away  his  face  in  sorrow  and  anger, 
and  it  would  be  left  dark  and  troubled  like  that  stream, 
when  the  wind  and  the  storm  swept  over  it.  He  told  her, 
too,  how  the  Almighty  once  came  into  the  world  to  bless 
and  to  save  it ;  how  he  was  once  a  babe  in  a  manger,  then 
a  little  feeble  child  like  herself;  and  how,  when  a  man  of 
sorrows,  he  look  little  children  in  his  arms  and  blessed 
them,  and  said  of  such  was  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 
Blanche,  with  her  starry  eyes  riveted  on  his  face,  drank  in 
these  divine  truths,  and,  like  the  mother  of  our  Lord,  in 
after  years  she  pondered  on  all  these  things. 

Is  it  strange  that  she  grew  up  the  purest  and  most  in- 
nocent of  created  beings  ? 


THE   LOST  DAUGHTER.  17 

Father  Angelo,  whose  mind  was  richly  imbued  with 
classic  as  well  as  divine  lore,  poured  into  hers  the  chas- 
tened wisdom  of  Greece  and  Rome.  He  had  banished 
from  his  library  every  book  which  treated  of  love  and 
passion,  and  even  the  page  of  history  which  described 
the  ruin  caused  by  unlicensed  feeling  and  lawless  crime 
was  a  sealed  volume  to  her.  She  read  nothing  but  what 
he  selected  for  her  perusal ;  she  had  not  a  thought  con- 
cealed from  him,  whom  she  venerated  as  the  best  repre- 
sentative of  the  Deity  on  earth. 

He  taught  her  to  play  on  the  organ,  and  to  modulate 
her  voice  to  sing.  She  manifested  the  most  intense  love 
for  music.  It  satisfied  her  love  of  the  beautiful,  of  whose 
existence  she  was  unconscious.  It  stood  to  her  in  the 
place  of  youth,  beauty  and  love,  from  whose  association 
she  seemed  forever  debarred.  Whenever  she  sang,  or 
listened  to  Father  Angelo  while  he  pressed  the  sounding 
bellows,  and  waked  the  instrument  to  devotional  harmony, 
her  eyes  would  fill  with  tears,  her  cheeks  would  flush  and 
turn  pale,  her  hands  tremble,  and  her  lips  quiver.  The 
latent  music  of  her  being  welled  up  from  its  bidden  spring, 
and,  as  it  flowed  and  undulated,  her  transparent  counte- 
nance betrayed  all  the  motions  within. 

Thus  passed  the  first  fifteen  years  of  the  young  life  of 
Blanche.  Time,  which  had  expanded  her  juvenile  charms 
into  the  soft  bloom  of  girlhood,  had  not  perceptibly  changed 
the  noble  lineaments  of  Father  Angelo.  His  majestic  form 
Btill  towered  like  the  palm  tree  of  the  desert ;  his  clear, 
dark  eye  still  beamed  with  the  radiance  of  the  western  sun. 
He  seemed  like  one  of  those  prophets  of  old,  sanctified  and 
set  apart  as  a  vessel  of  the  Lord,  into  whom  he  had 
poured  his  inspiration,  and  anointed  with  the  oil  of  his 
grace — 

"Remote  from  men  with  God  he  passed  his  days. 
Prayer  all  his  business,  all  his  pleasure  praise ; 
A  life  so  sacred,  such  serene  repose 
Seemed  Heaven  itself!" 

till  an  incident  occurred  which  disturbed  its  peaceful  calm 
and  left  an  impression,  never  to  be  effaced,  on  the  heart  ot 
Blanche. 

She  was   sitting  under  that  aged  oak,  whose  gray 
2 


18  THE  LOST  DAUGHTER. 

strength  and  unwithered  vigor  reminded  her  of  Father 
Angelo,  on  the  brink  of  that  stream  on  whose  unceasing 
flow  she  was  never  weary  of  gazing ;  the  shadow  of  the 
oaken  branches  rested  on  the  water  in  lengthening  lines, 
indicating  the  declining  day.  "While  she  thus  sat,  half  re- 
clining on  the  grass,  in  an  attitude  of  childish  abandon- 
ment, she  beheld  a  boat  come  gliding  down  the  stream,  in 
which  were  two  figures.  The  novelty  of  the  sight  chained 
her  to  the  spot,  though  her  first  impulse  was  to  fly  to 
Father  Angelo  and  ask  him  the  meaning  of  the  strange 
phenomenon.  The  occupants  of  the  boat  were  two  young 
men,  one  of  whom  was  plying  the  oars  with  animated 
grace,  the  other  reclining  indolently  by  his  side.  The 
moment,  however,  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Blanche,  he 
spoke  in  a  low  voice  to  his  companion,  who,  resting  on 
his  oars,  suffered  the  skiff  to  float  gently  near  the  bank 
where  she  was  seated.  Such  a  figure  in  such  a  scene 
seemed  more  like  a  picture  of  the  imagination  than  a  living 
reality.  The  peculiarity  of  her  costume  alone  would  have 
riveted  their  attention.  The  only  direction  which  Father 
Angelo  had  ever  given  Naomi  with  regard  to  her  ward- 
robe was  that  she  should  be  clothed  in  white,  the  only 
proper  raiment,  he  remarked,  for  a  Heaven-dedicated 
child.  She  wore  a  loose  robe,  such  as  angels  are  repre- 
sented wearing  in  the  artist's  dream,  which  was  confined 
around  the  waist  by  a  white  girdle.  Her  arms  were  bare, 
er  hair,  not  curling  but  waving,  partly  swept  the  grass 
and  partly  floated  over  her  bosom,  while  her  eyes,  lustrous 
as  the.  heavens  and  limpid  as  the  stream,  were  turned  with 
an  innocent,  wild,  shy,  wondering,  yet  admiring  look  on 
the  first  youthful  specimen  of  humanity  she  had  ever  yet 
beheld.  So  deep  was  the  seclusion  of  their  dwelling,  so 
watchful  the  guardianship  of  Father  Angelo  and  Naomi, 
that  no  nun  in  a  cloister  was  ever  more  sequestered  from 
intercourse  with  mankind  than  this  young  girl.  Indeed 
her  seclusion  was  far  deeper  than  the  cloistered  nun's, 
for  she  does  meet  the  dark-stoled  monks,  and,  through  the 
grate  of  her  cell,  she  can  look  on  many  a  human  face 
divine.  Father  Angelo,  who  had  been  driven  by  one  of 
wildest  tempest  of  passion  into  the  haven  of  liockrest 
himself,  who  had  seen  the  mother  of  Blanche  a  victim  to 
the  same  moral  desolation,  and  who  had  vowed  upon  her 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  19 

grave  to  shield  her  child  from  the  dread  elements  whose 
fury  they  had  both  known  by  fatal  experience,  resolved 
that  hers  should  be  a  vestal  life,  auid  that  man  should  never 
be  allowed  to  make  himself  a  rival  of  the  God  who  had  pro- 
claimed himself,  amid  the  thunders  and  lightnings  of  Mount 
Sinai,  a  jealous  God.  The  languid  young  man,  wakened  to 
sudden  life,  stepped  upon  the  bank,  and,  raising  his  hat 
gracefully  from  his  head,  approached  Blanche,  who,  roused 
from  her  trance  of  wonder  and  admiration,  sprang  from 
her  grassy  couch,  and  was  about  to  fly  toward  the  cabin. 

"  Do  not  let  us  alarm  you,"  said  he,  in  a  low  and  gen- 
tle voice.  "  We  are  strangers,  who,  led  by  a  spirit  of 
adventure  to  navigate  an  unknown  stream,  find  ourselves 
so  near  the  close  of  day,  we  would  thank  you  if  you  could 
direct  us  to  a  place  of  shelter  for  the  night,  if  there  is  one 
near." 

The  voice  of  the  angel  welcoming  the  spirit  at  the  gate 
of  Paradise  could  hardly  sound  sweeter  to  the  soul  than 
his  youthful  accents  to  the  ear  of  Blanche,  accustomed 
only  to  the  venerable  accents  of  Father  Angelo,  and  the 
kind,  but  coarser  tones  of  the  good  Naomi.  A  sudden 
revelation  of  another  life,  a  life  unknown  before,  flashed 
upon  her.  The  eyes  of  the  young  stranger,  beaming  with 
admiration,  were  riveted  upon  her  face,  and,  for  the  first 
time,  a  deepening  blush  stole  glowingly  over  the  lilies  of 
her  cheek. 

"Father  Angelo  dwells  in  that  cabin  behind  the  rock," 
she  replied.  "  There  is  no  other  habitation  near." 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  Will  be  be  willing  to  receive 
us?"  inquired  the  young  man,  exchanging  glances  with 
his  companion,  who,  leaning  over  the  edge  of  the  skiff, 
waited  with  manifest  interest  the  result  of  the  conversa- 
tion. 

"  He  is  a  Christian,"  replied  Blanche,  with  holy  sim- 
plicity ;  "  and  God  tells  us  to  be  kind  unto  strangers. 
Yonder  he  comes.  I  will  ask  him." 

At  the  sight  of  Father  Angelo's  tall  and  august  form, 
looking  still  taller  and  more  ancestral  in  its  robes  of 
solemn  gray,  his  long,  white,  flowing  beard  and  snowy 
locks  uncovered  to  the  breeze,  the  strangers  again  looked 
at  each  other  with  a  peculiar  embarrassment. 

"  Ah,  I  see  now  where  we  are,"  exclaimed  the  speaker. 


20  THE   LOST  DAUGHTER. 

"This  must  be  the  Hermit  of  Rockrest.  But  yon,  yonng 
maiden,  surely  you  do  not  dwell  with  him  I" 

"  He  is  my  father  on  earth,  given  me  by  my  Father 
in  Heaven,"  answered  the  orphan  recluse,  unconscious  that 
her  language  was  very  different  from  what  the  strangers 
were  wont  to  hear  from  the  lips  of  youthful  beauty. 

By  this  time,  the  hermit  had  reached  the  spot  where 
the  stranger  stood,  and,  as  Blanche  raised  her  innocent 
eyes  to  his  face,  she,  for  the  first  time,  trembled  and  shrunk 
before  its  severe  and  majestic  expression.  Why  did  a 
strange  feeling  of  shame,  unknown  before,  roll  like  a 
sultry  cloud  over  the  spotless  surface  of  her  thoughts ! 
Why  did  she  bow  her  head  till  her  long,  loose  locks  man- 
tled the  blushes  that  burned  upon  her  cheeks  ? 

"  Blanche,"  said  the  hermit,  raising  his  hand  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  cabin,  and  bending  upon  her  a  grave,  rebuking 
glance.  She  understood  his  motion,  and  obeyed  it,  though 
not  without  casting  her  eyes  one  moment  toward  the 
young  stranger,  whose  countenance  flashed  like  lightning 
as  she  passed.  He  dared  not  detain  her  ;  for  there  stood 
that  awful-looking  old  man,  leaning  upon  his  staff  like  one 
of  the  prophets  of  old,  as  if  ready  to  call  down  the  thun- 
ders of  Heaven. 

"Young  man,"  said  Father  Angelo,  "what  is  your 
errand  here  ?" 

"We  have  wandered  out  of  our  way,"  he  replied,  awed 
by  the  voice  and  manner  of  the  hermit.  "  We  wished  to 
find  shelter  for  the  night,  for  the  day  is  almost  spent. " 

"  The  moon  will  light  the  path  of  your  return,"  replied 
the  hermit.  "  If  you  were  weary  travelers,  girded  for 
toil,  and  employed  in  the  service  of  my  Divine  Master,  I 
would  give  you  food  and  shelter  and  rest ;  but  the  sons  of 
pleasure  can  find  no  welcome  with  us.  Go  back  to  your 
gay  companions,  and  disturb  not  the  abode  of  the  solitary. 
Ye  are  of  the  world.  We  are  not  of  the  world.  You 
and  I  can  no  more  mingle  than  the  rock  and  the  stream. 
Why  do  you  linger  ?  I  do  not  wish  to  be  harsh  and  in- 
hospitable," he  added,  in  a  softened  tone  ;  "  but  I  cannot 
suffer  the  breath  of  that  world  from  which  I  have  forever 
withdrawn,  to  pollute  the  solitude  of  this  heaven-dedicated 
spot.  The  earth  is  broad.  'Tis  but  a  narrow  path  I 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  21 

have  chosen  to  walk  in.     Respect  my  rights,  and  invade 
them  no  more." 

There  was  something  so  commanding  in  the  appearance 
and  voice  of  Father  Angelo,  that  the  young  man  dared 
not  linger.  With  an  air  of  haughtiness,  struggling  with  the 
awe  which  he  could  not  shake  off,  he  turned  away,  jumped 
into  the  skiff  by  the  side  of  his  companion,  whose  dipping 
oars  soon  flashed  brightly  in  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 

"  What  did  the  young  man  say  that  covered  your 
cheeks  with  blushes  ?"  asked  Father  Angelo  of  Blanche, 
as  they  sat  together  in  the  light  of  the  moon,  that  streamed 
into  the  low  window  of  the  cabin,  and  sprinkled  with  silver 
the  faded  gilding  of  the  organ. 

"  Nothing,  father,"  replied  Blanche.  "  He  only  asked 
for  shelter,  which  I  promised  him  in  your  name.  '  I  was 
a  stranger,  and  ye  took  me  in,'  said  our  Saviour,  and  you 
have  often  repeated  the  words  to  me.  Why,  father,  did 
you  send  them  away  in  anger,  instead  of  opening  your 
door  to  receive  them  ?" 

"  Did  you  wish  them  to  remain,  Blanche  ?" 

"  I  did,  father,"  she  replied,  without  looking  up  :  for 
that  strange  feeling  of  confusion,  which  she  had  never 
known  before,  dimmed  the  crystal  mirror  of  her  eye. 
"  They  were  beautiful  and  fair  to  look  upon,  and  the  voice 
of  him  who  addressed  me  sweet  as  the  sound  of  the  dis- 
tant waterfall.  Surely,  father,  if  the  sons  of  men  resemble 
these,  they  cannot  be  the  wicked  beings  you  have  taught 
me  to  shun.  These  must  have  been  angels  ;  for  the  Bible 
says  those  who  welcome  strangers,  sometimes  entertain 
angels  unawares." 

"  My  child!  my  child  !"  cried  the  hermit,  in  an  earnest 
and  troubled  tone.  "  Remember  how  the  serpent,  with 
his  beguiling  tongue,  charmed  the  mother  of  mankind. 
Remember  how  Lucifer  was  transformed  to  an  angel  of 
light.  Oh,  thou  Guardian  of  innocence,"  continued  he, 
lifting  up  his  invoking  hands  over  her  innocent  head,  "  let 
not  the  tempter  invade  this  new  Eden  of  my  chastened 
heart !  Once,  once  I  have  been  banished  from  my  para- 
dise, in  which  the  serpent  had  stolen.  Spare  me,  O  God, 
another  trial  1  Not  me  alone — not  for  myself  I  pray. 
Plunge  me  in  the  furnace  glowing  with  sevenfold  heat,  if 
it  be  thine  infinite  will ;  but  spare  this  spotless  lamb — this 


22  THE   LOST  DAUGHTER. 

lamb  of  the  flock  of  Gilead,  whom  I  have  reserved  for 
thy  holy  altar  1" 

Awed  by  the  solemnity  of  his  words  and  manner,  Blanche 
sunk  upon  her  knees  and  bowed  her  head  upon  his  lap. 
There  was  silence  for  a  few  moments,  when  the  hermit 
spoke — 

"  Look  up,  my  child.  See  how  the  moonbeams  sparkle 
on  the  water.  How  peaceful  and  smiling  it  looks  !  And 
yet  those  same  wavelets,  now  calm  as  the  fleecy  vault  above, 
were  woven  as  a  shroud  around  your  mother's  form,  and 
prepared  her  for  the  grave  where  she  now  slumbers.  I 
have  never  told  you  the  story  of  your  infancy  ;  but  it  is 
time  that  I  should  warn  you  of  the  doom  which  was  hers, 
and  show  you  the  lines  traced  by  the  hand  of  misguided 
passion  and  fatal  experience." 

"  You  told  me  that  God  had  given  me  to  your  arms," 
said  the  trembling  Blanche,  "  that  I  might  be  devoted  to 
his  service,  and  pass  my  days  in  prayer  and  praise.  Tell 
me  not  of  sorrow  and  sin ;  it  makes  me  wish  to  die." 

"  When  temptation  approaches,  the  armor  of  defense 
must  be  prepared.  Better,  far  better  to  know  of  the  rocks 
and  quicksands  that  lie  beneath  the  waves  of  existence, 
than  wait  till  life's  frail  bark  is  dashed  against  them  by  the 
fury  of  the  tempest  and  broken  into  shivers." 

Then,  taking  her  hand,  Father  Angelo  led  her  down  to 
the  very  brink  of  the  stream,  and  showed  her  the  rocks 
over  which  the  current  foamed  bright  and  white  in  the 
moonlight,  and  told  her  how  dark  and  angry  was  the  scene 
on  the  night  when  her  mother  lay  cold  and  stiff  in  her  liquid 
shroud,  while  she,  a  weeping  infant,  reclined  beneath  his 
threshold.  Then,  winding  through  a  path  shaded  by  shrub- 
bery and  long  grass,  he  carried  her  to  the  grave,  now  scarcely 
distinguishable  from  the  greensward  around  it,  where  the 
victim  of  passion  slept  in  lonely  and  unawaking  slumber. 

"  Oh,  my  father,"  cried  the^veeping  Blanche,  rising  from 
the  grave  of  her  mother,  and  throwing  herself  into  his 
arms,  "  save  me  from  myself — save  me  from  the  world ! 
But  when  you  die — for  you  say  the  aged  die  before  the 
young — who  will  shield  me  from  temptation  and  guard  me 
from  evil  ?" 

"  He  who  committed  you  to  my  keeping  will  give  his 
angels  charge  concerning  thee,  and  they  will  bear  thee  upon 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  23 

their  wings,  and  cover  thee  with  them  as  a  shield,  '  Fear 
not,  for  I  am  with  thee,'  saith  the  Lord  Almighty." 

Prom  this  night,  a  change  came  over  the  spirit  of 
Blanche.  Shadows,  coming  and  going,  flitted  over  the 
heavenly  serenity  of  her  brow,  and  a  dewy  softness  ofttimes 
vailed  the  clear  lustre  of  her  eyes.  She  was  both  happier 
and  sadder  than  before.  The  stream,  on  whose  margin 
she  had  so  loved  to  recline,  no  longer  whispered  to  her 
of  everlasting  peace.  Its  murmurs  told  the  story  of  her 
mother's  sorrows,  and  she  saw  in  its  cold  bosom  the  image 
of  her  death-chilled  form.  But  while  these  remembrances 
came  darkly  and  appallingly  on  one  side,  on  the  other 
glided  the  vision  of  the  youthful  strangers.  Again  she 
beheld  the  graceful  figure  standing  at  her  side,  with  an 
eye  bright  as  the  sun,  yet  soft  as  the  waning  moon. 
Wherever  she  was,  that  phantom  form  was  near.  Even 
when  she  knelt  in  prayer,  it  came  and  knelt  at  her  side, 
and  she  could  hear  its  voice  of  music  mingling  with  the 
deep  and  organ-like  tones  of  Father  Angelo. 

That  one  brief  moment  was  never  to  be  forgotten.  She 
might  linger  in  that  solitude  till  her  locks  were  white  as 
the  snowy  locks  of  the  hermit,  till  she,  too,  passed  into 
the  long,  polar  winter  of  life,  but  its  memory  would  still 
be  to  her  a  vernal  bloom,  unchilled  by  its  snows,  a  silver 
fountain  uncongealed  by  its  frost. 


CHAPTER    II. 

VAIN  theory,  that  in  solitude  the  passions  die  I  If,  in 
plunging  into  its  depths,  one  could  leave  behind  him 
that  restless  thing,  the  heart,  then  indeed  there  would  be 
peace  •  but  the  wind  stirs  the  foliage  of  the  lonely  moun- 
tain as  well  as  that  of  the  peopled  plain  ;  and  wherever 
the  stormy  elements  of  life  exist,  they  will  burst  forth  in 
strength,  the  greater  for  their  long  quiescence.  Solitude 
is  the  empire  of  passion — not  its  grave. 

Blanche  no  longer  sat  by  the  margin  of  the  stream 
alone.  Father  Angelo  was  ever  at  her  side,  ready  to  guard 


24  THE  LOST  DAUGHTER. 

and  sustain,  ever  talking  to  her  of  Heaven  and  heavenly 
things.  In  vain  she  watched  for  the  gliding  boat  and  the 
coming  stranger. 

One  evening,  Father  Angelo  was  reading  to  her  from 
the  Divine  Volume ;  she  sat  against  the  organ,  whose 
dark  and  massive  form  brought  out  in  strong  relief  her  own 
white-robed  figure.  Naomi  plied  her  needle  at  a  little 
distance,  listening  with  reverend  attention  to  the  accents 
of  her  aged  master.  It  was  a  peaceful  scene,  and  a  sweet 
quietude  rested  on  the  young  face  of  Blanche.  The  hermit 
was  reading  the  history  of  the  daughter  of  Jephthah,  and 
she  saw  in  it  a  type  of  her  own  destiny.  At  that  moment, 
it  seemed  to  her  a  glorious  one,  and  her  eye  began  to  kindle 
with  a  holy  inspiration. 

There  was  a  step  heard  on  the  threshold.  The  footstep 
of  the  stranger  in  that  solitude  was  as  startling  as  the  print 
on  the  sand  in  Crusoe's  desert  isle.  Blanche  trembled. 
Father  Angelo  rose  with  a  clouded  brow,  and,  opening 
the  door,  the  young  stranger,  whose  image  had  haunted 
the  memory  of  Blanche,  stood  before  him.  The  hermit 
drew  back  with  a  cold  and  stately  air  ;  but  a  slow  burst  of 
irrepressible  delight  illumined  the  face  of  Blanche.  Faint 
from  excess  of  joy,  she  leaned  against  the  organ,  and  clasped 
both  hands  over  her  heart,  to  still  its  wild  pulsations. 

"  Why  hast  thou  come  again,  young  man  ?"  said  Father 
Angelo,  in  stern  accents.  "  I  told  thee  the  world  was 
wide,  and  that  there  was  room  enough  in  it  for  thee  and 
me,  but  that  there  must  be  a  broad  path  between  us, 
stranger !  I  cannot  bid  thee  welcome,  for  my  soul  is 
troubled  within  me.  Something  tells  me  that  thy  coining 
is  the  herald  of  sorrow." 

"  Nay,  not  so,  father,"  cried  the  young  man,  with  a  de- 
precating smile;  and  placing  some  letters  in  his  hand. 
"  Read  these,  and  you  will  see  that  I  am  no  nameless  ad- 
venturer, unworthy  of  your  regard,  but  the  son  of  a  noble- 
man, and  the  companion  of  the  noblest  of  the  land." 

"  Clarence,  son  of  Clarence  !"  repeated  the  hermit, 
glancing  his  eye  over  the  letters  and  again  folding  them. 
"  Titles  are  of  no  estimation  in  my  eyes.  That  you  are 
a  descendant  of  the  King  of  king  reflects  upon  you  far 
greater  honor." 

"  To  be  the  heir  of  an  honorable  name,  unstained  by  crime 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  25 

and  adorned  by  talents,  is  a  distinction  of  which  a  young 
man  may  well  be  proud,"  answered  Clarence,  with  uncon- 
scious haughtiness. 

"  The  echoes  of  fame  are  never  heard  within  these  rock- 
bound  walls,"  replied  the  hermit.  "What,"  added  he. 
commandingly,  "  what  is  all  this  to  me  ?"  Then,  turning 
suddenly  to  Blanche,  continued,  "Blanche,  retire  with 
Naomi." 

Blanche  rose,  with  a  fading  cheek,  but  Clarence  sprung 
forward  and  arrested  her  departure. 

"  No,  stay,"  he  impetuously  cried.  "  It  was  for  you  I 
came.  Life  has  been  but  one  dream  of  you  since  I  beheld 
you  under  the  shadow  of  the  oak.  Leave  me  not,  I 
entreat,  but  pray  this  stern-hearted  and  inflexible  old  man 
to  look  beni-gnantly  on  me,  for  your  sake." 

"  Oh,  father,"  said  Blanche,  laying  her  hand  imploringly 
on  the  arm  of  Father  Angelo,  "  if  not  for  mine,  for  the 
sake  of  the  dear  Redeemer,  speak  kindly  to  this  young 
man,  and  bid  him  stay." 

"  My  child,  my  blessed  child,  you  know  not  what  you 
ask.  If  I  bid  him  remain,  peace  will  vanish.  The  image 
of  a  holy  God  will  be  hurled  from  its  altar,  and  an  earthly 
idol  usurp  its  place.  Remember  that  a  dying  mother 
dedicated  you  to  Heaven,  as  an  expiation  for  her  own 
sinful  idolatry.  Remember  that  every  year,  as  it  has 
rolled  over  your  head,  I  have  renewed  the  solemn  conse- 
cration, which  your  own  heart  has  sanctioned,  and  attest- 
ing angels  witnessed.  Blanche,  you  will  not,  you  cannot 
prove  false  to  these  threefold  vows." 

"  She  cannot,  she  will  not  prove  false  to  the  impulses  of 
nature  and  truth,"  exclaimed  the  young  man  keeping  his 
fascinating  gaze  on  the  face,  which  never  before  had  glowed 
beneath  the  glance  of  love.  "  Her  heart  abjures  such  un- 
natural obligations.  It  already  throbs  in  unison  with 
mine.  I  see  it ;  I  feel  it.  Heaven  created  us  for  each 
other ;  and  by  keeping  us  asunder,  after  having  once  met, 
you  defeat  the  purposes  of  the  most  High,  and  doom  to 
solitary  wretchedness  two  beings  whose  mutual  joy  your 
blessing  ought  to  crown.  Old  man,"  continued  he,  with  in- 
creasing fervor,  "in  the  frozen  calm  of  age  have  you 
entirely  forgotten  the  memories  of  youth  ?  Does  no  re- 
membrance plead  for  love  like  mine,  no  form  of  beauty 


26  THE  LOST  DAUGHTER. 

like  hers  rise  amid  the  dimness  of  the  past,  reminding  you 
of  the  omnipotence  of  passion  ?" 

"  Beware !"  exclaimed  the  hermit,  while  his  powerful 
form  shivered  with  sudden  emotion,  and  a  cold  moisture 
gleamed  upon  his  forehead.  "  Warm  the  chilled  and  tor- 
pid serpent  if  you  dare,  and  brave  its  sting,  but  uncoil  not 
the  serpent  memories  of  my  youth,  rouse  them  not  from 
their  long  lethargy.  Young  man,  I  have  loved  and  suf- 
fered— sinned  and  sorrowed,  as  I  trust  you  may  never  sor- 
row and  never  sin.  All  the  waters  of  the  ocean  could 
never  efface  the  remembrance  of  those  days  of  strife  and 
passion  ;  but  I  humbly  trust  the  dark  stain  they  left  upon 
my  soul  has  been  washed  out  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb. 
Here,  in  this  solitude,  I  have  found  peace  after  the  wreck 
of  joy.  Here,  I  have  fostered  this  pure  blossom  of  inno- 
cence to  present  it  an  offering  of  sweet-smelling  savor  un- 
to Heaven.  She  is  guileless  and  happy.  Leave  her,  as 
you  found  her,  in  the  bosom  of  tranquillity.  Seek  a  com- 
panion in  pleasure  among  the  daughters  of  men,  and  tempt 
not  a  child  of  God  into  the  paths  of  a  polluted  world. " 

As  he  spoke,  he  folded  one  arm  around  Blanche  and 
drew  her  closely  to  him,- while  the  folds  of  his  gray  robe 
mingled  with  her  white  flowing  raiment.  He  bent  his 
bead  till  his  wintry  locks  blended  with  the  vernal  luxuri- 
ance of  hers ;  and  tears,  slowly  falling  like  rain  from  a  cold 
cloud,  glittered  on  her  hair.  The  young  man  was  moved, 
but  his  emotion  only  gave  warmth  and  strength  to  his 
eloquence. 

"  Father,"  said  he,  bending  his  knee,  for  it  seemed  an 
act  of  reverence  due  to  this  sublime  old  man,  "  listen  to 
me  for  her  sake,  if  not  for  mine.  When  you  are  gone,  and 
you  must  be  near  the  end  of  your  pilgrimage,  who  will 
protect  this  young  and  helpless  being  ?  Who  will  shelter 
her  from  the  storms  you  so  much  dread  ?  Would  you 
leave  her  in  this  wilderness  with  no  guardian  but  a  woman 
who  already  must  feel  the  infirmities  of  life  stealing  upon 
her  ?  Have  you  never  thought  of  this  ?" 

"  God  never  forsakes  those  who  put  their  trust  in  him," 
answered  the  hermit,  looking  devoutly  upward.  "  Not  a 
sparrow  falls  to  the  ground  without  his  knowledge  ;  and 
is  she  not  of  more  value  than  they  ?" 

"Let  her  speak,"  said  Clarence;  "surely  you  would  not 


THE  LOST    DAUGHTER.  27 

bind  her,  an  unwilling  victim,  to  vows  made  in  her  infancy. 
The  God  to  whom  you  have  devoted  her  will  not  accept  a 
heartless  sacrifice.  Speak,  Blanche — let  me  call  you  by 
your  own  sweet  name — and  tell  me  if  you  are  not  willing 
to  leave  this  desolate  spot  for  the  home  of  joy  and  love  I 
came  to  offer  you.  There  you  can  erect  an  altar  to  your 
God,  and  offer  him  as  pure  an  incense  as  ascends  from  this 
rocky  shrine.  He  is  not  confined  to  this  lone  spot.  He 
fills  immensity  with  His  presence,  and  wherever  a  human 
heart  beats,  there  is  His  temple.  Blanche,  we  will  worship 
Him  together.  Does  not  my  prayer  find  an  echo  in  your 
soul  ?  Speak,  and  tell  me  if  my  spirit  pleads  alone." 

Blanche,  who  had  been  clinging  to  the  hermit  in  unut- 
terable agitation,  gradually  released  her  hold,  and,  gliding 
down  upon  her  knees,  buried  her  face  in  the  folds  of  his 
robe. 

"  Oh,  father,"  she  cried,  "I  dare  not  speak.  I  fear  your 
anger,  but  I  feel  as  if  invisible  hands  were  drawing  me 
toward  him  ;  and  if  you  send  him  from  me,  it  seems  as  if 
my  life-chords  would  break  asunder.  Have  pity  upon  me,  O 
my  father,  and  cast  me  not  off  in  thy  displeasure.  I  can- 
not help  finding  the  face  of  the  stranger  fair,  and  his  voice 
sweet  to  my  ear." 

"Alas  1  alas  1"  said  Father  Angelo,  tenderly  raising  her 
in  his  arms,  and  looking  mournfully  on  her  face.  "  For 
more  than  fifteen  years  have  I  borne  you  on  my  heart  as 
the  one  lone  flower  sent  to  sweeten  my  blighted  existence, 
and  the  stranger  of  a  day  must  come  to  rob  me  of  its 
fragrance,  and  leave  me,  like  my  owii  sheltering  rock, 
bleak  and  bare." 

"  No,  no,  father,"  exclaimed  Blanche.  "I  do  not  ask  to 
leave.  I  only  pray  that  he  may  remain  with  me.  Then 
you  will  have  two  flowers,  instead  of  one,  to  gladden  your 
life." 

A  proud  smile  played  for  a  moment  on  the  lips  of  Clar- 
ence, as  glancing  round  those  low,  dim  walls,  he  contrasted 
them  with  the  lofty  halls  of  his  father. 

"Young  man,"  said  the  hermit,  seating  Blanche  by  his 
side,  and  motioning  to  a  seat,  "sit  down,  and  let  us  com- 
pose our  excited  feelings.  We  must  think  and  speak 
calmly  of  all  these  things." 


28  THE   LOST  DAUGHTER. 

"Call  me  Clarence,  father.  Treat  me  not  as  a  stranger, 
but  as  a  son,  for  such  would  I  be  unto  thee. " 

Father  Angelo  looked  earnestly  and  sadly  on  the  young 
man,  and,  as  he  beheld  his  fair  and  beaming  countenance, 
he  could  not  help  his  own  spirit  cleaving  unto  him,  and 
his  pity  rose  for  the  young  and  tender  Blanche.  He  might 
banish  the  youth  from  his  dwelling ;  but  could  be  efface 
his  image  from  her  heart  ?  He  could  bind  her  down  to  the 
rocky  home  which  had  so  long  sheltered  her ;  but  could  he 
prevent  her  thoughts  from  roving  to  the  world  illumined 
by  his  presence  ?  Shall  he  pierce,  with  a  stroke  more 
cruel  than  the  sacrificial  knife,  that  innocent  bosom,  and 
watch  day  after  day  the  dark  smoke  of  suffering  rising 
above  the  altar,  instead  of  the  pure  incense  of  prayer  and 
of  praise  ?  He  believed  in  an  overruling  Providence — a 
Providence  that  not  only  presides  over  the  destinies  of 
mighty  empires,  but  directs  the  motion  of  the  falling  leaf. 
It  could  not  have  been  chance  which  guided  the  boat  of 
the  stranger  over  the  waters  of  the  lake  into  an  unknown 
stream,  thus  penetrating  into  the  solitude  which  he  had 
believed  impervious.  Perhaps  she  was  created  to  serve 
her  divine  Master  in  the  high  places  of  the  world,  to  be  a 
beacon  set  upon  a  hill,  to  which  the  mariners  of  life 
might  turn  when  about  to  be  drifted  on  the  shoals  of 
temptation.  God  had,  perchance,  confided  her  to  his  care 
during  her  growing  childhood,  that  a  pure  and  holy  being 
might  be  formed,  whose  example,  placed  before  the  daugh- 
ters of  fashion,  would  show  them  the  loveliness  of  piety,  and 
allure  them  to  heaven.  These  thoughts  rolled  slowly 
through  the  mind  of  the  hermit,  like  the  sun  struggling 
through  a  misty  atmosphere,  leaving  a  brightening  track, 
though  not  dispersing  the  clouds. 

With  his  zeal  for  the  glory  of  God  and  the  salvation  of 
Blanche,  he  was  conscious  the  leaven  of  selfishness  was 
also  mijigled.  For  his  own  sake,  he  had  likewise  wrestled 
with  the  young  man's  spirit,  for  the  child  of  his  adoption 
was  dear  to  him  as  the  life-blood  of  his  veins,  and  the 
thought  of  yielding  her  to  another,  far  more  terrible  than 
death.  In  deep  self-abasement,  he  acknowledged  to  him- 
self his  own  weakness,  and  the  deeper  his  humility,  the 
greater  his  compassion,  the  stronger  his  sympathy. 

"Young  man — Clarence — my  son,"  he  cried,  laying  his 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  29 

hand  kindly  on  the  shoulder  of  the  yonth,  who  thrilled 
with  rapture  at  the  benignant  words — "let  us  make  this  a 
matter  of  solemn,  earnest  prayer.  I  am  willing  to  submit 
it  to  an  all-wise  and  all-controling  Deity.  Blanche  is  but  a 
child,  and  you  are  only  in  the  morning  of  manhood.  You 
know  nothing  of  each  other,  nothing  of  the  melancholy 
despotism  of  Time,  in  crushing  the  buds  of  feeling  under 
his  iron  heel.  You  love  each  other  now,  but  you  have 
only  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  seen  the  beauty  of 
youth  mirrored  in  their  beams.  The  flame  so  suddenly 
enkindled  may  be  extinguished  by  the  breath  of  experience. 
Go  back,  my  son,  to  the  scenes  you  have  quitted,  and  let 
time  and  absence  test  the  strength  of  your  new-born  love. 
In  the  mean  time,  let  Blanche  commune  with  her  own 
heart,  in  the  holy  shades  which  have  embosomed  her  from 
infancy.  Nature  now  blooms  in  the  glory  of  summer ;  when 
the  last  leaves  of  autumn  have  fallen,  and  the  breath  of  the 
dying  season  whispers  of  wisdom  and  disposes  to  medita- 
tion, you  may  come  to  us  once  more,  and  I  will  tell  you  the 
dealings  of  God  with  our  souls." 

"How long!"  exclaimed  Clarence,  reproachfully. 

"How  long!"  echoed  the  heart  of  Blanche. 

"And  then,"  cried  Clarence,  "  may  I  claim  her  as  my 
own  ?  May  I  bring  with  me  a  man  of  God  to  perform 
the  nuptial  rite,  or  are  you  invested  with  sacerdotal  power 
to  consecrate  our.  union  ?" 

"lean  make  no  promises  for  the  future,"  replied  the 
hermit,  rising — and  his  majestic  height  seemed  almost 
eupernatural,  so  near  it  approached  the  low  walls.  "  It 
is  in  vain  that  man  builds  the  palace  of  hope,  unless  God's 
hand  leads  him  in.  The  future  !  Who  dares  talk  of  the 
future  ?  Who  can  measure  its  dim  boundaries  ?  Who 
can  gather  its  unknown  fruits  ?  Who  can  tell  whether  its 
untrodden  fields  be  golden  with  harvests  or  black  with 
ruin  ?  Not  we,  who  stand  upon  the  narrow  isthmus  of  the 
Present,  between  the  two  great  Illimitables." 

The  youthful  Clarence  felt  oppressed  by  the  grandeur  of 
Father  Angelo's  sentiments,  and  found  no  words  to  reply. 
He  longed  for  some  communion  with  Blanche,  but  he 
hardly  dared  to  gaze  upon  her  in  the  presence  of  her  awe- 
inspiring  guardian.  He  felt  that  he  must  go ;  but  he  was 
not  banished  forever ;  he  was  permitted  to  return,  and  that 


30  THE  LOST  DAUGHTER. 

was  an  indulgence  beyond  his  hopes,  after  his  first  stern 
greeting.  He  lingered,  unwilling  to  depart  without  receiv- 
ing from  Blanche  some  pledge  of  faith,  some  token  of  love. 
Yet  she  was  surrounded  by  such  an  unapproachable  atmo- 
sphere of  childlike  innocence  and  saintly  piety,  it  seemed 
sacrilege  to  address  her  in  the  language  of  earthly  pas- 
sion. 

"I  will  go  with  you  to  the  water's  edge,"  said  Father 
Angelo,  "unless,"  he  added,  as  if  struck  with  a  sudden 
recollection,  "  you  will  remain  and  sit  down  at  our  simple 
board.  Silver  and  gold  have  I  none,  but  such  as  I  have 
I  freely  offer  unto  thee." 

Clarence  gladly  remained,  though  he  could  not  partake 
of  Naomi's  neatly-served  repast.  The  agitation  of  his 
mind  silenced  the  demands  of  appetite.  He  only  quaffed 
the  water  of  the  "  crystal  well,"  that  refreshed,  with  its 
icy  coolness,  the  lips  burning  with  the  repression  of  its 
glowing  thoughts. 

Blanche,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  art  of  ruling  her 
emotions,  sat  by  the  side  of  Father  Angelo,  and,  under 
the  shadow  of  his  lofty  height,  bent  her  dove-like  eyes,  in 
all  their  dewy  softness,  on  the  face  which  realized  to  her 
all  she  had  ever  dreamed  of  angels.  She  contrasted  the 
bright  darkness  of  his  hair  with  the  dim  white  of  Father 
Angelo's ;  the  soft,  warm  radiance  of  his  eyes,  that  seemed 
to  be  sinking  into  her  soul,  with  the  deep,  calm  light  of 
the  hermit's,  which  appeared  flashing  into  his  own.  Her 
cheek,  usually  uncolored,  like  the  flower  blooming  in  shade, 
ungilt  by  the  sun,  now  emulated  the  tint  in  the  heart  of 
the  wild  rose. 

"And  now,  my  son,"  said  Father  Angelo,  when  they 
rose  from  the  supper,  which,  to  the  mortification  of  the 
good  Naomi,  was  left  almost  untouched,  "  I  will  speed  you 
on  the  way — the  night  will  be  dark,  and  a  few  moments 
of  lingering  will  add  no  joy  to  remembrance.  You  will 
come  again,  but  you  cannot  bring  the  peace  which  reigned 
in  this  little  cabin  a  few  hours  ago." 

"  Father,  I  will  bring  joy  and  love ;  and  who  could  not 
exchange  peace  for  these?  Blanche,"  said  he,  turning 
irresolutely  toward  her — 

"  Come,"  said  the  hermit,  "  a  simple  farewell  is  all  that 
need  be  uttered,  and  let  God's  blessing  follow  it." 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  31 

"Farewell,  Blanche,"  exclaimed  Clarence,  taking  her 
hand  and  pressing  it  with  fervor  in  both  his  own.  The 
next  moment  he  was  following  the  steps  of  the  hermit, 
and  Blanche  threw  herself  weeping  into  the  arms  of 
Naomi. 

"Oh,  my  mother,"  she  cried,  "he  has  taken  away  my 
life  with  him,  and  left  his  own  instead.  Tell  me,  good 
Naomi,  why  does  my  heart  throb  so  wildly,  when  it  is  not 
terror  that  I  feel  ?  and  why  do  I  weep  so  blindly,  when 
I  am  more  glad  that  he  came  than  grieved  that  he  has 
left  me  ?  Even  now  I  am  passing  over  all  the  flowers  of 
summer,  and  thinking  of  the  autumn's  fading  leaves." 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Naomi,  tenderly  smoothing  her 
disordered  tresses,  "there  is  no  shame  in  your  tears,  nor 
sin  either.  The  Lord  has  surely  sent  this  young  man 
hither,  and  we  must  not  oppose  his  blessed  will.  When 
good  Father  Angelo  is  taken  away,  and  he  cannot  live 
forever,  there  would  be  nobody  to  keep  away  the  wolves 
from  the  little  lamb  but  poor  old  Naomi.  You  need  not 
fear  if  you  quit  these  rocks  and  woods  that  you  will  leave 
the  great  Lord  behind  you,  for  the  Bible  says,  the  heaven 
of  heavens  cannot  contain  Him,  and  this  is  but  one  poor 
and  narrow  spot.  Truly  the  young  man  is  a  goodly 
youth,  and  bears  himself  right  nobly." 

"  Do  not  stop,  my  good  Naomi,"  cried  Blanche,  caress- 
ing her  affectionate  foster-mother.  "  Your  voice  was 
never  so  pleasant  to  my  ears.  You  said  he  was  a  goodly 
youth — go  on.  Think  you  the  world  contains  one  so 
good  and  fair  ?" 

"  Ah,  my  child,"  she  replied,  "  the  world  is  full  of  fair 
people,  more  of  the  fair  than  the  good ;  but  he  might 
pass  among  them  all." 

"  Are  there  any  maidens  in  the  world  fairer  than  I  am, 
Naomi  ?" 

"  How  do  you  know  that  you  are  beautiful  and  fair  ?" 
asked  Naomi,  smiling  at  her  simplicity. 

"  I  have  seen  myself  in  your  eyes  and  Father  Angelo's ; 
and  to-night  I  looked  upon  myself  in  the  eyes  of  Clarence, 
and  I  felt  that  I  must  be  fair  like  himself.  Does  not  love 
make  every  one  beautiful  ?" 

"  It  does  to  the  one  that  loves." 

From  this  time  Blanche  clung  to  Naomi  with  a  tender- 


32  THE   LOST  DAUGHTER. 

ness  greater  than  she  had  ever  felt  before.  She  was  a 
woman,  and  could  sympathize  with  her  new  and  overpow- 
ering emotions.  She  was  good  and  pious,  but  her  piety 
was  not  so  sublimated  as  Father  Angelo's.  She  had 
withdrawn  from  the  world,  not  because  she  had  expe- 
rienced treachery  or  sorrow,  but  because  she  loved  her 
master,  and  resolved  to  share  his  secluded  destiny.  She 
had  carried  into  solitude  all  her  social  feelings  unchilled, 
her  kindly  charities  still  warm  in  her  bosom.  It  seemed 
as  if  Providence  had  sent  the  young  Blanche  as  an  object 
on  which  her  affections  could  overflow.  She  looked  up 
to  Father  Angelo  with  a  reverence  so  blended  with  hu- 
mility, it  could  find  expression  only  in  acts  of  personal 
devotion.  The  love  of  the  lowly  in  heart,  like  the  watery 
element,  seeks  a  level,  and  its  current  follows  a  downward 
course.  She  could  look  down  upon  the  child  committed 
to  her  care,  for  it  was  dependent  and  helpless,  and  her 
love  could  find  utterance  in  words.  The  great  want  of 
her  being  was  satisfied.  Though  in  a  subordinate  situa- 
tion, her  sentiments  were  dignified  and  pure,  and  constant 
communion  with  such  a  spirit  as  Father  Angelo's  had 
given  them  a  heavenly  cast.  She  knew  the  history  of  his 
early  life,  but  when  he  took  possession  of  the  hermitage 
of  Rockrest,  he  had  said  to  her — 

"  Naomi,  the  past  is  a  grave ;  let  silence  forever  rest 
upon  it." 

This  silence  she  had  never  broken.  Even  to  Blanche 
she  bad  never  violated  the  spirit  of  the  injunction,  or 
spoken  of  her  master  otherwise  than  as  the  world-abjuring 
saint.  She  had  also  religiously  respected  his  purpose  of 
keeping  Blanche  perfectly  secluded  from  the  world ;  but 
now  when,  in  spite  of  their  vigilance,  human  love  had 
rivalled  the  divine  in  her  heart,  she  could  not  help  re- 
joicing in  the  hope  that  this  flower  of  beauty  would  be 
transplanted  to  a  warmer  soil  and  a  brighter  atmosphere. 


THE   LOST  DAUGHTER.  $3 


CHAPTER    III. 

THE  flowers  of  summer  had  faded,  the  leaves  of  autumn 
fallen,  and  paved  the  margin  of  the  stream  with  their 
pallid  gold.  Clarence  came,  and  Father  Angelo,  bowing 
to  what  he  believed  the  decree  of  a  higher  power,  no 
longer  opposed  his  union  with  Blanche,  and  he  promised 
that  when  the  buds  of  spring  unfolded,  she  should  be 
given  to  his  arms.  In  vain  Clarence  pleaded  ;  the  hermit 
was  inflexible. 

"  She  is  too  young,"  he  answered.  "Would  you  lure 
the  bird  from  its  parent  nest  before  its  tender  wings  can 
unfurl  ?  My  mission  is  not  yet  ended.  Her  guardian 
angel  is  still  waiting  here." 

The  winters  of  that  mild  latitude  are  short,  and  the 
verdure  and  foliage  of  spring  ere  long  beautified  the  soil. 

Naomi  was  troubled  about  the  bridal  robes  of  her  fos- 
ter-child ;  but  the  hermit  reminded  her  of  Martha,  who 
was  careful  and  troubled  about  many  things,  and  there- 
fore rebuked  by  her  Lord. 

"  Let  her  be  adorned  with  the  same  virgin  simplicity  as 
she  now  is,"  said  Father  Angelo;  "with  no  ornament 
but  her  unshorn  locks,  the  crowning  glory  of  womanhood. 
As  a  daughter  of  Zion  she  shall  leave  me,  though  as  such 
I  fear  she  will  never  return." 

The  day  appointed  for  the  nuptials  was  balmy  and 
serene.  No  pompous  retinue  was  to  attend  the  youthful 
bridegroom.  He  was  to  come,  accompanied  only  by  the 
man  of  God.  As  he  was  to  bear  his  bride  over  the  stream 
which  he  was  the  first  to  navigate,  he  had  fitted  up  a 
splendid  barge,  with  silken  hangings,  and  christened  it 
the  Arctic  Dove.  The  name  appeared  in  golden  charac- 
teis  on  the  boat,  and,  fluttering  above  it,  the  winged  mis- 
sionary of  the  deluge,  bearing  in  its  beak  the  bloomy 
olive. 

It  was  the  wish  of  Father  Angelo  that  they  should  be 
united  under  the  old  oak,  the  hermit  of  the  stream,  be- 
neath the  canopy  of  heaven,  in  a  temple  not  made  with 
hands.  Thus  the  nuptials  became  grand  and  solemn. 
The  same  waves  that  received  th,e  d.rowning  sigh  of  the 
3 


34  THE   LOST  DAUGHTER. 

mother  heard  the  nuptial  vows  of  the  child,  and  the  same 
hands  which  had  drawn  from  its  watery  grave  the  stiffened 
form  of  the  one  were  now  raised  in  benediction  over  the 
plighted  vows  of  the  other. 

Blanche  knelt  at  the  feet  of  Father  Angelo,  the  wedded 
wife  of  Clarence.  And  now  that  the  hour  of  parting  was 
come,  and  she  was  to  be  borne  from  the  guardian  arms 
which  had  so  tenderly  cherished  her,  the  mighty  debt  she 
owed  him  pressed  upon  her  a  weight  of  gratitude  too 
heavy  to  be  borne.  All  the  love  she  bore  to  Clarence, 
all  the  brilliancy  of  the  prospects  opening  to  her  view, 
could  not  reconcile  her  to  the  separation.  To  leave  him 
in  loneliness  and  age  seemed  cruel  and  ungrateful ;  to 
leave  him  when  she  was  just  becoming  old  enough  to  re- 
pay his  cares,  and  to  gild  the  shadows  of  his  departing 
days  with  the  deepening  brightness  of  her  own  I 

"Bless  me,  my  father,"  she  cried,  folding  her  arms 
around  his  knees,  and  looking  up  in  his  face  through 
showering  tears.  "  And  oh  !  forgive  that  I  have  loved 
better  the  face  of  the  stranger  than  the  one  on  which  I 
have  gazed  so  long.  Pray  for  me,  my  father,  pray  for 
me,  as  I  float  out  into  that  unknown  world  whose  dangers 
I  am  going  to  brave.  If  sickness  fall  upon  you,  or  death 
come  near,  I  will  return  on  wings  to  your  bosom,  to  soothe 
your  sufferings  and  minister  to  your  wants." 

Father  Angelo  raised  her  from  the  earth,  and  held  her 
a  moment  in  a  silent  embrace.  His  face  was  deadly  pale, 
and  tears  trembled  on  his  silver  lashes.  Then  releasing 
one  arm,  and  lifting  the  hand  toward  heaven,  he  ex- 
claimed— 

"  The  blessing  of  a  triune  God  rest  upon  you  forever 
and  ever,  thou  child  of  my  prayers  and  darling  of  my 
hopes  1  Let  no  thought  of  me  sadden  your  joys,  or  darken 
your  future  home.  But  if  sorrow  and  disappointment  be 
your  lot,  should  the  storm  arise  and  the  lightnings  flash, 
remember  the  haven  of  Rockrest,  where  your  frail  bark 
may  again  be  sheltered  ;  remember  these  aged  arms  that 
are  ever  open  to  enfold  you." 

"  And  thou  too,  my  son  !"  added  he,  turning  to  Cla- 
rence, and  blessing  him  after  the  manner  of  the  patriarchs 
of  old.  "  But  if  ever  the  vows  you  have  breathed  this 
day  be  forgotten  or  broken,  either  through  falsehood, 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  35 

neglect,  or  desertion,  the  blessing  will  turn  to  an  undying 
curse,  and  burn  into  your  soul  with  unquenchable  fire." 

"  Father,  I  will  never  forfeit  your  blessing,"  exclaimed 
Clarence,  impetuously.  "  I  swear" — 

"  Swear  not,  my  son,  neither  by  heaven,  for  it  is  God's 
throne,  nor  by  the  earth,  for  it  is  his  footstool.  And 
now  farewell,  my  dear  children.  May  He  who  hung  his 
rainbow  over  the  undeluged  world,  as  a  token  of  His 
covenant  mercy,  preserve  you  both  from  the  temptations 
of  your  own  hearts,  in  the  midst  of  an  ungodly  world  !" 

Then,  separating  Blanche  forcibly  from  the  weeping 
Naomi,  he  waved  his  hand  toward  the  barge.  A  few 
moments  after,  Blanche  found  herself  seated  by  the  side 
of  Clarence,  encircled  in  his  arms,  and  her  head  drooping 
almost  unconsciously  on  his  breast.  She  was  gliding 
slowly,  gently  along,  to  the  music  of  the  dipping  oars, 
while  the  silken  awning  rustled  with  the  breeze,  and  the 
water  dimpled  and  sparkled  in  the  sun.  As  the  boat 
gradually  receded  from  the  wild  home  of  her  childhood, 
she  could  still  see  the  tall  figure  of  Father  Angelo  lean- 
ing, as  it  were,  on  the  bine  of  heaven,  like  one  of  those 
time-gray  ruins  rising  in  hoary  magnificence  amid  the 
gloom  of  antiquity. 

And  now,  behold  Blanche,  the  child  of  solitude  and 
prayer,  the  inhabitant  of  that  world  which  had  always 
seemed  to  her  at  such  an  immeasurable  distance  ! 

One  whose  blind-born  eyes  are  suddenly  opened  to  the 
visible  glories  of  creation  could  hardly  be  more  dazzled 
and  bewildered  than  Blanche.  She  had  never  dreamed 
of  the  existence  of  the  splendor  that  surrounded  her,  and 
it  was  long  before  she  could  be  convinced  it  was  a  reality. 
It  was  still  longer  before  she  could  fashion  herself  to  the 
manners  and  customs  of  the  beings  with  whom  she  was 
associated.  She  was  a  wild  forest-flower  imbedded  in 
diamonds.  At  first,  their  glitter  seemed  cold  to  the  sun- 
beams that  had  warmed  her  rock-sheltered  home.  There 
was  no  warmth,  no  life,  when  Clarence  was  not  near.  In 
his  absence,  each  moment  of  time  was  a  drop  of  lead  fall- 
ing, heavy  and  dull  ;  in  his  presence,  a  golden  sand  glid- 
ing too  swiftly  away.  Never  perhaps  did  human  love 
arise  to  such  wild  idolatry,  or  manifest  itself  with  such 
fervor  and  strength.  And  the  love  of  Clarence  was 


36  THE   LOST  DAUGHTER. 

equally  enthusiastic  and  intense,  but  accustomed  to  that 
repression  of  feeling  which  custom  requires.  In  society, 
he  chastened  its  ardor  and  withheld  its  expression. 
Dearly  as  he  loved  her,  he  feared  the  ridicule  of  the 
world,  and  often  blushed  at  the  smile  her  adorning  looks 
and  clinging  devotion  elicited  from  those  around  them. 
Her  artless  exclamations  of  wonder  and  delight,  the  soft 
wildness  of  her  eyes,  that  paused  to  rest  on  any  object 
that  charmed  them,  whether  animate  or  inanimate,  the 
childish  and  free  grace  of  her  attitudes,  the  simplicity  and 
holiness  of  her  language,  and  the  angelic  loveliness  of  her 
person,  made  her  the  theme  of  universal  curiosity,  interest 
and  admiration.  When  told  she  was  beautiful,  she  did 
not  deny  the  praise,  and  accuse  the  one  who  addressed 
her  of  flattery. 

"Yes,  I  know  that  I  am  fair,"  she  simply  replied;  "but 
God  made  me  so.  You  should  praise  Him,  not  me." 

One  evening,  when  she  appeared  decorated  with  dia- 
monds, the  gifts  of  Clarence,  she  gazed  earnestly  at  the 
bracelets  that  glittered  on  her  arm. 

"  Of  what  are  you  thinking,  sweet  Blanche  ?"  asked 
Clarence,  observing  the  fixedness  of  her  gaze. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  she  answered,  with  a  smile,  followed 
by  a  sigh,  "that  these  would  melt  away  in  the  blaze  of 
light.  I  have  seen  the  flowers  sparkling  with  dew-drops, 
and,  when  the  morning  sun  shone  on  them,  the  dew-drops 
vanished.  I  feel  like  one  of  those  flowers  shining  with 
gems,  and  I  am  looking  to  see  them  fade  away." 

It  was  long  before  Clarence  could  induce  her  to  quit 
his  arm  in  society,  and  accept  the  protection  of  another. 
He  told  her  the  world  had  claims  upon  them,  that  they 
would  be  thought  selfish  and  exclusive,  that  they  must 
sometimes  separate  and  endeavor  to  contribute  to  the 
happiness  and  enjoyment  of  others.  There  was  a  friend  of 
Clarence,  the  same  who  had  accompanied  him  in  the  boat 
when  he  first  beheld  the  young  recluse,  who  was  always 
near  them,  and  whom  Blanche  preferred  to  the  strangers 
who  solicited  her  regard.  His  name  was  Julian,  and 
there  was  something  very  charming  in  the  sportive  grace 
of  his  manner,  and  in  the  animation  and  brightness  of  his 
countenance.  He  delighted  in  calling  forth  the  original 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  37 

and  guileless  remarks  of  Blanche,  arid  in  observing  the 
changes  of  her  soft,  gazelle-like  eyes. 

"I  wonder  I  had  forgotten  yon,"  she  said,  when  he  had 
been  dwelling  on  the  moment  when  he  and  Clarence  first 
beheld  her  reclining  on  the  bank,  and  imagined  her  some 
stray  child  of  Paradise.  "Now,  when  I  look  upon  you,  I 
see  you  are  almost  as  beautiful  as  Clarence.  I  thought 
he  must  be  different  from  the  sons  of  men.  Indeed,  I  be- 
believed  him  an  angel.  Now,  it  seems  to  me,  there  are 
many  angels,  though  none  so  fair  as  he." 

The  cheek  of  the  young  man  flushed  with  pleasure  at 
this  openly  avowed  admiration,  but  such  was  the  heavenly 
innocence  of  the  speaker,  he  dared  not  exhibit  the  delight 
he  felt. 

"Why  did  Father  Angelo  tell  me  there  was  so  much  sin 
in  the  world  ?"  she  asked.  "Sin  is  such  a  dark  and  dread- 
ful thing,  it  must  throw  a  shadow  on  all  around  it.  Every- 
thing I  see  looks  bright  and  beautiful ;  every  face  wears  a 
smile.  If  there  were  sin,  there  would  be  sorrow.  And 
yet,"  added  she,  looking  thoughtfully  upward,  "I  hear  no 
one  speak  of  God.  I  fear  they  do  not  remember  Him.  I 
hear  no  prayers  ascending  round  me,  no  incense  of  praise 
going  up.  At  home  He  was  in  all  our  thoughts.  His 
name  forever  on  our  lips.  Why  are  all  silent  here?" 

"  In  the  world  the  deepest  thoughts  of  the  heart  are 
not  spoken.  We  think  the  name  of  God  too  holy  to  be 
breathed  in  a  promiscuous  crowd.  We  worship  Him  in 
the  great  churches,  and  pray  to  Him  in  the  solitude  of  our 
closets." 

"  Father  Angelo  says  life  should  be  one  long  prayer, 
and  every  breath  we  draw  one  of  thanksgiving  and  praise. 
Oh  !  it  was  far  easier  to  think  of  God  near  that  lone  rock 
in  the  presence  of  good  Father  Angelo,  who  always  had 
heaven  in  his  heart,  than  in  this  bright  and  beautiful 
world.  It  is  sweet  to  live  here,  but  I  would  pray  to  die 
there." 

This  spotless  simplicity,  this  pure  heavenly-mindedness, 
could  not  be  kept  perfectly  uncontaminated  in  the  worldly 
atmosphere  she  now  breathed.  The  deep  and  ardent 
concentration  of  her  thoughts  on  Clarence  became  gradu- 
ally diffused  on  surrounding  objects.  She  loved  him 
still,  but  she  was  no  longer  sad  and  miserable  when  he 


38  THE  LOST  DAUGHTER. 

left  her  side.  She  saw  him  now  among  the  young  and 
noble  of  his  sex,  and  he  no  longer  shone  in  radiant  supe- 
riority, as  when  his  blooming  youth  was  contrasted  with 
the  hoary  age  of  Father  Angelo.  He  had  tried  to  teach 
her  to  repress  her  love,  and  to  wean  her  from  her  too 
clinging  trust  in  him,  before  the  eyes  of  others,  and,  in 
obeying  his  will,  she  learned  to  listen  with  pleasure  to 
the  language  of  admiration,  and  to  blush  and  smile  at 
her  own  loveliness.  The  images  of  the  lonely  hermit- 
age, of  the  venerable  Father  Angelo,  and  the  affectionate 
Naomi,  grew  more  faint  and  distant,  and  a  dim  haze 
floated  over  the  clear  heaven  of  her  faith. 

Clarence,  who  at  first  beheld  with  pride  and  delight  the 
admiration  she  inspired,  and  whose  only  fear  was  that  she 
should  love  him  too  well  before  the  eyes  of  the  world,  be- 
gan to  tremble  lest  his  instructions  should  be  too  faith- 
fully obeyed.  He  saw  those  eyes,  which  had  hung  upon 
him  with  such  fond  idolatry,  wander  to  meet  the  beaming 
glances  of  others,  and  the  excitement  of  gratified  vanity 
brighten  with  unhealthy  radiance  the  vestal  roses  of  her 
cheek.  A  vague,  painful,  but  unacknowledged  jealousy 
stole  gradually  into  his  heart.  He  began  to  watch  her, 
and  to  look  upon  her  with  a  clouded  brow,  while  she, 
meeting  less  sunshine  in  his  eyes,  sought  more  earnestly 
for  it  in  the  eyes  of  others.  Like  twilight  shadows  im- 
perceptibly commencing,  yet  slowly,  certainly  deepening 
into  the  gloom  of  night,  the  light  cloud  spread  and  dark- 
ened, and  they  sat  within  its  shade,  and  felt  a  dullness 
creeping  over  them,  yet  never  said  to  each  other,  "  Are 
not  our  hearts  growing  cold  ?  And  why  does  the  house- 
hold warmth  depart  ?" 

It  was  strange  that  Blanche,  in  the  singleness  and  sim- 
plicity of  her  nature,  did  not  ask  Clarence  the  cause  of 
his  estrangement.  But,  while  her  thoughts  seemed  trans- 
parent as  glass  in  all  things  else,  they  were  opaque  on 
this.  Perhaps  an  instinctive  feeling  of  wrong  within  her- 
self, an  innate  sense  of  having  lost  something  of  her 
original  holiness  of  spirit,  a  consciousness  that  her  wild, 
idolatrous  love  was  assuming  a  character  so  comparatively 
calm  as  by  contrast  to  appear  to  her  indifference,  made 
her  dread  an  explanation  of  his  altered  manner.  Per- 
haps, too,  a  dread  that  his  love  was  fading,  arid  that  the 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTEK.  39 

dark  prophecies  of  Father  Angelo  were  about  to  be  ful- 
filled, more  than  all  contributed  to  this  strange  reserve. 
Then  the  pride  and  delicacy  inherent  in  the  bosom  of 
woman  closed  her  lips  to  the  utterance  of  complaint.  As 
yet  no  word  had  been  spoken  with  ungentle  tongue,  no 
sentiment  expressed  that  breathed  of  harshness  ;  but  there 
was  a  mutual  conviction  that  something  had  come  be- 
tween their  hearts,  something  cold  and  foreign  ;  but  this 
was  expressed  only  by  the  averted  eye  and  the  changing 
cheek.  But  the  smouldering  fire  soon  found  vent,  and 
arrowy  words,  winged  by  passion,  fastened  in  the  heart. 

One  evening  Blanche  remained  at  home,  and  suffered 
Clarence  to  go  to  some  scene  of  pleasure  without  her 
companionship.  She  felt  as  if  she  would  be  happier 
alone  than  by  his  side,  with  the  growing  fear  that  his  heart 
was  wandering  from  her.  And  now  the  novelty,  the  in- 
toxication of  her  feelings  had  subsided  ;  now  she  was 
accustomed  to  the  incense  that  everywhere  greeted  her,  it 
was  losing  its  power  to  charm.  She  was  beginning  to 
feel  desolate  and  oppressed.  She  remembered  the  Eden 
morning  of  her  love,  and  sighed  at  the  retrospect.  She 
had  tasted  of  the  tree  of  experience,  and  found  its  fruits 
bitter  to  the  taste.  She  recalled  the  sweet  tranquillity  of 
her  life  when,  embosomed  in  the  shades  of  the  hermitage, 
her  days  glided  on  unruffled  by  passion  or  fear,  and  won- 
dered why  love  must  begin  in  rapture  and  end  in  sorrow. 
She  had  said  to  Clarence  she  would  rather  remain  alone  ; 
and  yet,  when  he  turned  away  without  urging  her  to 
accompany  him,  she  felt  regret  and  disappointment.  His 
dark  eye  rested  upon  her  for  a  moment  with  a  peculiar 
expression. 

"  Is  it,  indeed,  alone  that  you  wish  to  be,  Blanche  ?" 
asked  he ;  "  or  is  it  not  rather  that  you  are  weary  of  be- 
ing with  me  ?" 

"JWeary,  oh  no  !"  she  replied.  "  But  I  am  weary  of 
being  abroad.  I  am  tired  of  trying  to  be  like  other  people, 
and  of  forgetting  what  I  am  myself.  Indeed,  I  some- 
times think  I  am  not  myself ;  that  the  Blanche  of  Rock- 
rest  is  no  more,  and  a  strange,  cold,  unnatural  being  come 
in  her  stead." 

"  Do  you  indeed  feel  so  ?"  said  her  husband,  approach- 
ing her  with  a  lighted  countenance.  "  Then  do  not  try  to 


40  THE  ^OST  DAUGHTER. 

banish  her.  Be  still  the  Blanche  whom  I  first  knew,  and 
attempt  not  to  imitate  the  follies  you  condemn  and 
despise." 

Blanche  lifted  np  to  him  her  dove-like  eyes,  with  a  look 
of  gentle  reproach,  though  a  feeling  of  self-blame  again 
bowed  them  down. 

"  It  was  to  please  you,"  she  cried,  "that  I  have  endea- 
vored to  be  like  others.  I  have  learned  to  hide  my  soul 
and  to  seal  my  lips  when  I  felt  my  heart  gushing  too 
freely  ;  and  I  have  tried  to  laugh  when  I  was  not  merry, 
and  seem  delighted  when  I  am  sad  ;  and  yet — and  yet" — 
she  added,  with  a  sigh — "  it  seems  as  if  I  had  lost  all  my 
own,  and  gained  nothing  from  others.  Oh,  Clarence,  I 
often  wish  for  the  wings  of  a  dove,  that  I  might  fly  back 
to  the  peaceful  shades  of  Rockrest !" 

"Fold  your  wings  on  my  heart,  my  gentle  dove,"  ex- 
claimed Clarence,  drawing  her  to  his  bosom  with  the  pas- 
sionate tenderness  which  jealousy  had  vailed,  but  not  ex- 
tinguished. /"Tour  home  is  here.  Forgive  me  all  cold- 
ness and  estrangement.  Forgive  me  if  I  have  been  a 
faithless  guardian  of  too  dear  a  treasure. }  I  feared  the 
world  was  become  my  rival ;  that  the  voice  of  admiration 
was  sweeter  to  your  ear  than  the  accents  of  my  love.  I 
see,  I  feel  that  I  have  wronged  you.  The  whiteness  of 
your  spirit  is  unstained.  It  was  the  shadow  of  my  own 
that  darkened." 

Blanche,  who  felt  as  if  a  cold  avalanche  had  suddenly 
fallen  from  her  heart,  clung  to  his  bosom,  which  she  deluged 
with  her  long-repressed  tears.  All  wildly  as  she  wept,  she 
had  never  felt  so  deep  a  happiness.  A  feeling  of  bliss- 
ful security  from  some  mysterious,  impending  danger 
settled  like  the  lull  of  the  tempest  on  the  storm-lashed 
billows. 

"  Oh,  do  not  leave  me  !"  she  cried,  when  at  last  he  rose 
to  depart.  "  I  feel  as  if  my  guardian  angel  were  forsaking 
me." 

"  Then  why  not  go  with  me  ?" 

"  I  cannot  go  out  of  myself  to-night.  My  thoughts 
are  too  precious;  they  make  me  too  happy.  There  would 
be  tears  in  my  eyes  which  others  would  see,  and  think  me 
sad,  while  the  bright  smiles  in  my  heart  would  be  too  deep 
for  show." 


THE  LOST   DAUGHTER.  41 

And  thus,  in  love  and  trust,  they  parted ;  he  to  fulflll 
an  engagement  with  a  friend,  who  had  promised  to  meet 
him  at  the  gay  gathering — she  to  meditate  on  the  fullness 
of  her  reborn  joy  and  content. 

"  I  will  soon  return,"  said  he,  looking  back  upon  her, 
•with  one  of  those  lambent  smiles  which  always  played  like 
summer  lightning  on  her  soul. 

Where  were  the  arrowy  words,  which,  winged  by  the 
hand  of  passion,  were  destined  to  hang  quivering  in 
memory's  core  till  it  festered  and  bled,  making  an  irreme- 
diable wound  ?  They  were  not  yet  formed  in  the  red  hot 
forge  of  jealousy,  that  furnace  where  sevenfold  heat  is 
always  burning. 

Blanche  remained  in  a  kind  of  ecstatic  reverie,  wonder- 
ing if  she  were  not  in  a  dream,  closing  her  eyes  to  shut 
in  her  blissful  thoughts, 'then  opening  them  and  looking 
softly,  tremblingly  around,  as  if  to  see  if  there  were  no 
shadows  lingering  near,  ready  to  roll  back  ou  the  morning 
brightness  of  her  happiness. 

With  a  sudden  impulse,  she  slided  from  the  sofa  on 
which  she  was  seated,  and,  reclining  on  the  carpet  in  the 
same  careless,  childish,  graceful  manner  she  used  to  do 
under  the  old  oak  tree,  threw  her  arms  across  a  low  foot- 
stool, and  leaned  upon  them  her  warm  and  roseate  cheek. 
Excitement  had  subsided  into  depth  and  quiescence  ;  the 
stillness  of  the  apartment  fell  slumberously  upon  her,  and 
the  lids  so  lately  moist  with  tears,  gradually  closed  under 
their  dewy  weight.  She  was  a  child  again,  and  dreamed 
she  was  on  the  margin  of  the  stream  that  had  been  the 
mirror  of  her  childhood,  and  that  she  saw  the  snowy  locks 
and  august  figure  of  Father  Angelo  reflected  from  its 
glassy  surface.  His  voice  murmured  in  her  ear,  and  glided 
like  a  deep  rill  into  the  fountain  of  her  feelings.  She 
smiled,  and  stretched  out  her  arms  in  sleep,  and  the  move- 
ment partially  awakened  her.  Again  the  voice  murmured 
in  her  ear,  and  her  slumbers  melted  away.  Starting,  and 
raising  herself  on  one  elbow,  while  she  pushed  back  the 
loosened  ringlets  from  her  brow,  she  beheld  a  figure  kneel- 
ing at  her  side,  far  different  from  Father  Angelo's,  for  it 
was  adorned  with  all  the  graces  of  youth. 

"  Julian !"  she  exclaimed,  passing  her  hand  over  her 


42  THE  LOST  DAUGHTER. 

eyes,  as  if  to  clear  away  the  mists  of  vision,  "  Julian,  is  it 
you  ?" 

Julian  had  those  sportive  manners  which  made  it  impos- 
sible for  the  most  ultra  devotee  of  formality  to  preserve 
the  stiffness  of  ceremony  in  the  atmosphere  which  he 
breathed.  Blanche  had  always  admired  him  next  to  Clar- 
ence ;  and  wherever  she  went,  if  left  by  Clarence  to  the 
guardianship  of  comparative  strangers,  she  felt  a  glow  of 
delight  at  his  approach  she  was  too  artless  to  conceal. 
While  he,  satiated  with  the  artificial  sweets  of  society, 
turned  to  her  pure  and  sparkling  simplicity  for  refreshment 
and  repose.  Lately,  she  had  observed  that  the  cloud  on 
the  brow  of  Clarence  grew  darker  when  Julian  was  near 
her.  Sometimes  the  warm  smile  which  Julian's  gay  sallies 
called  to  her  lips  was  suddenly  frozen  there,  by  a  glance 
from  the  darkening  eye  of  Clarence,  meeting  her  suddenly 
through  an  opening  in  the  crowd,  and  she  felt  for  the 
moment  sick  and  wretched,  and  dreading  she  knew  not 
what.  The  crowd  would  close  together,  the  dark  cloud 
vanish,  the  sparkles  of  wit  and  gayety  again  coruscate, 
and  the  sweet  smile  that  had  been  hiding  in  roses  came 
timidly  forth  from  its  glowing  ambush  to  illuminate  her 
face. 

Now,  surprised  in  the  act  of  sleep,  in  which,  though 
there  was  no  guilt,  there  was  innocent  shame,  she  laughed 
and  blushed  at  his  attitude  of  mock  reverence — laughed 
all  the  more  readily  for  the  tears  which  she  had  previously 
shed.  She  thought  not  of  changing  her  partially  recum- 
bent position  ;  for  she  had  been  dreaming  that  the  old  oak 
boughs  were  rustling  above  her  and  the  grassy  carpet 
of  Rockrest  beneath  her,  and  the  illusion  was  not  yet 
dispelled. 

"You  look  now  as  you  did  when  I  first  beheld  you," 
cried  Julian.  "  I  never  shall  forget  that  moment." 

"  Nor  I  either,"  answered  Blanche,  thinking  of  Clarence, 
and  a  faint  sigh  died  on  her  lips.  "But  why  are  you 
here?"  she  added.  "I  thought  you  were  with  Clar- 
ence." 

"I  left  him  in  the  festive  throng,"  he  replied.  "But 
the  scene  had  no  charm  for  me,  since  you  were  absent.  I 
stole  away  unperceived,  and,  being  ushered  into  this  apart- 


THE  LOST   DAUGHTER.  43 

ment,  became  for  a  little  while  the  guardian  of  your  slum- 
bers." 

All  at  once,  Blanche  remembered  the  cloud  she  had  so 
often  seen  on  the  brow  of  Clarence  when  the  voice  of 
Julian  was  in  her  ear,  and  she  made  a  movement  to  rise  ; 
but  the  door  was  thrown  open  simultaneously,  and  Clar- 
ence entered,  with  a  dark  fire  burning  in  his  eyes,  to  which 
the  glances  yet  trembling  in  her  memory  were  summer  sun- 
beams. 

His  sudden  entrance,  stormy  countenance,  and  defiant 
air,  struck  Blanche  with  such  terror  that  her  limbs  were 
paralyzed.  She  attempted  to  rise,  but  powerless  as  the 
bow  whose  string  has  snapped  asunder,  leaned  against  the 
side  of  the  sofa,  with  joined  hands  and  pallid  cheeks. 
Julian  rose,  and,  while  his  face  reddened  and  his  brow  con- 
tracted, he  returned  the  haughty  glance  of  Clarence  with 
an  eye  fierce  and  unquailing. 

"And  it  was  for  this  you  refused  to  accompany  me?" 
exclaimed  Clarence,  every  consideration  consumed  in  the 
blaze  of  passion.  "It  was  for  this  you  cheated  me  into 
the  conviction  that  you  were  as  innocent  as  the  dove  for 
whose  wings  you  were  sighing.  And  I,  fool  that  I  was — 
I  believed  your  false  words,  and,  on  the  faith  of  your 
Judas  kisses,  warmed  you  once  more  in  my  heart  of  hearts. 
Oh,  thou  specious  dissembler,  thou  mayst  well  tremble,  for 
the  hour  of  retribution  is  at  hand  !" 

As  he  thus  gave  vent  to  his  stormy  emotions,  under  the 
excitement  of  the  most  maddening  jealousy,  Blanche  rose 
upon  her  feet  with  the  rebound  of  the  sapling  after  the 
sweep  of  the  whirlwind.  It  was  the  first  time  words  of 
anger  had  ever  been  addressed  to  her.  Naomi's  voice 
always  softened  into  tenderness,  and  Father  Angelo's  into 
love,  whenever  directed  to  their  foster-child.  At  first,  in 
trembling  terror,  she  listened  to  her  husband's  wrathful 
denunciations ;  but,  as  he  went  on,  the  great  law  of  self- 
preservation,  implanted  as  a  bulwark  to  aggression  in  the 
human  breast,  resisted  his  dark  charges.  She  felt  she  was 
wronged,  grievously  wronged,  and  the  cry  of  outraged 
innocence  rung  in  her  bosom.  She,  who  had  always  been 
as  gentle  as  the  unweaned  lamb,  tender  as  the  brooding 
dove,  now  stood  like  the  forest  empress,  confronted  in  her 
lonely  lair.  Those  fierce  and  deadly  passions  inherent  in 


44  THE  LOST  DAUGHTER. 

our  nature,  which  had  slumbered  from  her  birth,  and  of 
whose  existence  she  was  unconscious,  were  now  wakened 
and  writhing  within  her  with  the  coil  of  the  serpent  and 
the  sting  of  the  adder.  She  was  of  deadly  pallor,  for  it 
was  the  incandescence,  not  the  flame  of  passion  that  was 
burning  in  her  inmost  being.  Her  eyes  glittered  with  a 
metallic  gleam,  and  the  soft  curl  of  her  lip  was  lost  in  the 
quiver  of  disdain.  Was  this  Father  Angelo's  Heaven- 
dedicated  child,  the  angel  of  Rockrest  ?  Alas  !  the  blood- 
hounds were  let  loose  upon  her,  and  the  hunted  deer  turned 
upon  its  pursuer  for  a  life-struggle. 

"Clarence,"  cried  Julian,  his  sportive  accents  changed 
to  stern  resolution,  "recall  your  rash  words.  My  coming 
was  accidental.  Using  the  freedom  of  a  privileged  guest, 
I  entered  unannounced,  and  found,  her  sleeping  like  a 
wearied  child  " 

"And  knelt  to  awaken  her !"  interrupted  Clarence,  with 
withering  contempt.  "  Away  with  this  falsehood  1  Take 
that,  perfidious  friend!"  he  cried,  dashing  his  glove  at  his 
feet.  "  Take  it  and  begone  !  You  know  on  what  terms 
we  meet  again." 

Julian  raised  the  glove  and  put  it  in  his  bosom,  then, 
turning  to  Clarence,  said — 

"It  is  well.  You  and  I  understand  each  other  ;  but  for 
her,  if  you  do  not  take  back  every  aspersion  cast  upon  her 
spotless  innocence,  all  eternity  will  be  too  short  for  the 
gnawings  of  remorse  and  the  burnings  of  despair.  Hum- 
ble yourself  in  the  dust  before  her,  or  you  deserve  to  lose 
her  forever." 

"  She  is  lost  to  me  forever !"  exclaimed  Clarence,  with 
such  bitter  anguish,  that  Blanche  was  about  to  spring  to 
his  side,  when  his  look  deterred  her. 

"Blanche,  retire  to  your  room,"  said  he,  in  a  low,  husky 
voice;  "I  have  business  to  transact  which  makes  your 
absence  urgent." 

"  Unkind  Clarence !  misguided,  cruel  husband  !"  she 
cried,  the  glittering  spark  going  out  in  her  eyes,  and  a 
thick  haze  gathering  over  them.  "  What  is  it  you  are 
about  to  do  ?  Oh,  think  of  Father  Angelo  !  Think  of 
the  white  locks  of  age  !  Remember  his  parting  words  !" 

"  My  memory  has  kept  pace  with  yours,"  he  answered. 
"Be  assured,  I  have  forgotten  nothing.  Blanche,  I  re- 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  45 

qnire  your  obedience.  Once  more,  I  command  you  to 
retire  !" 

Slowly  and  mechanically  she  turned  away,  left  the  room, 
ascended  the  marble  stairs,  feeling  as  if  she  were  changing 
into  black  marble  herself,  like  the  doomed  Arabian  king, 
entered  her  chamber,  and  sat  down  on  a  low  couch  by  an 
open  window.  There  she  sat  motionless  as  a  statue,  the 
cool  evening  air  flowing  in  with  dewy  chillness  on  her 
fevered  temples.  She  heard  the  sound  of  shutting  doors 
and  retreating  footsteps  below,  then  a  stillness  like  the 
grave  succeeded.  Blanche  sat  thus  for  hours,  then  sank 
back  upon  the  couch,  while  the  rising  wind  blew  in  mid- 
night blasts  on  her  damp  tresses  and  uncovered  arms.  She 
did  not  sleep,  but  she  felt  not  the  wind  ;  she  knew  not 
that  the  clouds  of  night  enveloped  her.  She  was  not 
conscious  when  its  darkness  faded  into  the  gray  of  the 
morning.  The  chambermaid,  on  opening  the  door  to 
awaken,  her,  recoiled  at  the  sight  of  her  cold  white  face, 
and  fixed  mournful  eyes.  She  spoke  to  her,  but  received 
no  answer.  She  drew  near,  and  respectfully  touched  the 
pale  hand  that  hung  passively  over  the  couch ;  it  thrilled 
through  her  like  ice.  Alarmed,  she  rang  the  bell  and  sum- 
moned the  household  ;  but  the  master  was  not  there  ! 

A  physician  was  called  ;  but  the  skill  of  medicine  seemed 
unavailing  with  one  who  appeared  transformed  to  stone. 
While  he  was  trying  in  vain  to  force  the  congealed  blood 
from  her  veins,  whose  delicate  blue  could  no  longer  be 
traced  on  the  snowy  surface  beneath  which  they  meandered, 
Clarence  rushed  into  the  chamber,  with  wild  countenance 
p-nd  disordered  hair,  exclaiming — 

"  Blanche,  I  am  a  wretch  1  He  is  dead  !  Julian  is  dead  I 
ITe  fell  by  this  accursed  hand  !  Ha  !  is  she  dead,  too  ?" 
he  cried,  in  a  low,  shuddering  tone.  "  Have  I  killed  her, 
too  ?" 

"  No,  no,"  said  the  physician,  waving  him  back  with 
one  hand;  "disturb  her  not,  or  she  may  be  a  victim  yet. 
I  warn  you  to  fly,  young  man,  ere  it  be  too  late.  I 
understand  all  the  dark  transaction.  I  will  watch  over 
her." 

Clarence  stood  one  moment,  as  if  transfixed ;  then 
throwing  himself  by  the  couch,  on  which  Blanche  reclined, 
be  clasped  her  to  his  bosom  in  a  passion  of  grief  and 


46  THE  LOST  DAUGHTER. 

remorse,  kissed  her  brow,  cheeks,  and  lips  again  and  again, 
then,  kneeling  by  her,  lifted  his  hands  and  eyes  to  Heaven, 
as  if  supplicating  for  mercy  and  forgiveness. 

"  Clarence,"  cried  the  friend  who  awaited  him  at  the 
door,  "come  ;  for  it  is  death  to  linger." 

Finding  the  unhappy  young  man  obeyed  not  his  reitera- 
ted call,  he  entered,  and,  throwing  one  arm  around  him, 
with  mingled  tenderness  and  authority,  bore  him  from  the 
spot,  with  his  bosom  saturated  with  blood.  The  frozen 
stream  in  the  veins  of  Blanche  thawed  in  that  embrace  of 
agony,  and,  gushing  from  her  bandaged  arm,  left  a  dark 
red  stain  on  the  breast  of  the  unhappy  fugitive.  It  was 
but  too  true  that  Julian  had  taken  up  the  gauntlet  which 
Clarence,  in  jealous  madness,  had  thrown  down,  the  duel- 
lists had  met,  and  the  gay  and  handsome  Julian  fell  by  the 
hand  of  his  too  late  repenting  friend.  Reason  returned 
at  the  sight  of  his  flowing  blood  ;  and  when,  in  an  agony 
of  remorse,  be  cast  himself  on  the  ground  at  his  side, 
denouncing  himself  as  a  murderer,  the  expiring  Julian 
asserted,  with  his  last  breath,  the  angelic  innocence 
of  Blanche,  deploring  his  own  thoughtlessness  and  impru- 
dence. 

And  thus  Clarence  fled,  with  blood  upon  his  hands  and 
blood  upon  his  bosom,  with  despair  in  his  soul,  and  the 
invisible  Avenger  of  blood  behind  him. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

IT  was  months  after  the  events  recorded  in  the  last 
chapter,  that  the  scene  we  are  about  to  describe  was  un- 
folded in  the  life-dream  of  the  young  Blanche. 

She  was  sitting  on  a  low  couch,  supported  by  pillows, 
whose  white  linen  covering  could  scarcely  be  distinguished 
from  her  pale  and  bloodless  complexion.  Her  eyes,  mouru- 
fully  riveted  on  the  sky  seen  through  the  parted  curtains, 
had  a  still,  frozen  look,  and  so  immovable  was  her  attitude, 
that  the  long  loose  locks  that  floated  over  her  bosom 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  47 

stirred  not  with  the  breeze  of  life  that  seemed  lulled  in  her 
breast. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  stranger  entered.  He  was  a 
tall  dark  man,  whose  face  seemed  bronzed  with  the  burn- 
ing sun  of  a  tropical  clime.  She  turned  her  eyes  toward 
him,  but  no  ray  of  interest  or  curiosity  lighted  up  the 
frozen  calm  of  their  surface. 

"  Think  me  not  an  intruder,"  said  he,  gently  approach- 
ing her.  "  When  you  learn  the  motives  that  bring  me 
here,  I  trust  I  shall  be  forgiven." 

He  took  a  seat  near  her,  and  gazed  upon  her  long  and 
earnestly  :  gazed  till  his  sad  dark  eyes  were  blinded  by 
tears. 

"  You  are  the  adopted  daughter  of  Father  Angelo," 
he  cried,  "the  pious  hermit  of  Rockrest." 

At  that  beloved  and  revered  name,  so  long  a  stranger 
to  her  ears,  she  started  and  trembled.  Her  bosom  heaved 
faintly  and  heavily,  as  if  under  an  icy  weight,  and  she 
pressed  her  white  hand  upon  it,  pained  by  its  awakening 
life. 

"Blanche,"  exclaimed  he,  in  increasing  agitation,  "for 
such  I  am  told  is  the  name  you  bear,  you  see  before  you 
an  unhappy  wanderer  in  search  of  a  long-lost  treasure. 
For  years  on  years  I  have  sought  in  vain  for  some  traces 
of  an  adored  wife  from  whom  I  was  separated  in  early 
youth.  I  heard  your  history,  and  something  told  me  that 
I  might  discover  the  child  of  my  lost  Adella  in  you.  Your 
lineaments  and  features  are  hers.  My  heart  throbs  wildly 
with  its  new-born  hopes.  Speak,  and  tell  me  your  mother's 
name." 

"I  know  not,"  answered  Blanche,  shrinking  nervously 
from  the  agitated  stranger.  She  dreaded  the  approach  of 
mankind,  and  no  instinct  of  nature  drew  her  toward  this 
unknown  and  darkbrowed  being.  If  such  dread  and  de- 
structive elements  slumbered  in  the  bosom  of  the  young 
and  handsome  Clarence,  what  terrible  passions  might  not 
dwell  beneath  an  exterior  bronzed  and  withered  by  the 
intensity  of  an  equatorial  sun  ! 

"  Have  you  no  relic  of  her  ?"  cried  the  stranger,  in  a 
voice  of  passionate  entreaty  ;  "  nothing  that  will  confirm 
the  wild-born  hopes,  which  grow  stronger  as  I  gaze  upon 
you  ?  Your  voice — your  eyes  I  My  God,  it  must  be  so." 


48  THE  LOST  DAUGHTER. 

"I  have  a  letter,"  replied  Blanche,  now  effectually  roused 
from  the  torpor  of  despair,  and  rising  from  her  couch  with 
a  strength  she  was  not  conscious  of  possessing,  she  opened 
a  small  cabinet  near  the  couch,  and,  unclosing  a  pocket- 
book,  drew  forth  a  paper.  It  looked  worn  and  faded; 
and  in  the  folds  the  writing  was  scarcely  legible. 

"  It  is  hers.  I  should  know  the  characters  amidst  ten 
thousand  scrolls,"  exclaimed  the  stranger.  "Blanche,  my 
daughter — my  child — child  of  my  poor  lost  Adella  !"  He 
caught  her  in  his  arms,  pressed  her  to  his  bosom,  and  she 
felt  his  hot  tears  scalding  her  cheek. 

Terrified  and  bewildered,  Blanche  struggled  a  moment 
in  the  close  embrace. 

'•  Oh  I  let  me  go,"  she  cried  ;  "you  know  not  what  I 
have  suffered.  My  heart  is  broken — you  hurt  it.  You 
crush  it,  and  make  it  bleed  afresh.  You  deserted  my 
mother,  even  as  I  am  deserted.  You  drove  her  to  a  death 
of  violence.  Oh  !  let  me  go.  You  are  a  man,  and  must 
be  cruel.  I  fear  you — I  dread  you." 

Her  white  and  quivering  lips  suddenly  closed,  and  she 
fell  back  fainting  on  his  breast.  When  the  attendants 
entered,  summoned  by  the  violent  ringing  of  the  bell,  they 
were  astonished  and  alarmed  at  seeing  their  mistress  lying 
insensible  in  the  arms  of  a  stranger,  whose  dark  and  foreign 
aspect  inspired  them  with  distrust  and  awe.  When  Blanche 
came  back  to  life,  and  saw  him  who  called  himself  her 
father  kneeling  by  her  side,  with  a  countenance  of  such 
ardent  feeling  and  intense  axiety,  she  felt  a  sudden  revul- 
sion of  sentiment  toward  him,  a  strange,  unaccountable 
reaction.  The  cold  weight  that  had  benumbed  her  seemed 
melting,  and  sensibility  resumed  its  sway.  She  was  like 
the  drowned  person  resuscitated.  Every  nerve  was  quiv- 
ering and  instinct  with  anguish.  A  full  consciousness  of 
the  horror,  the  desolateness  of  her  lot,  a  sudden  horrible 
remembrance  of  the  murdered  Julian,  the  fugitive  Clarence, 
the  kneeling  figure  of  the  former,  the  withering  accusa- 
tions of  the  latter — all  the  events  of  the  last  few  months 
swept  instantaneously  across  her  mental  vision.  The 
thought  of  a  protector,  a  father,  a  friend — one  who  could 
bear  her  back  to  the  arms  of  Father  Angelo,  to  the  shelter 
of  Rockrest — rose  all  at  once,  like  the  breaking  of  dawa 
after  a  starless  uight.  Could  he  look  with  such  love  on. 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  49 

her  if  he  really  had  heartlessly  deserted  her  mother  ?  Had 
he  not  said  he  had  been  a  wanderer  years  on  years  in 
search  of  his  lost  treasure  ?  Clarence  too  was  a  wanderer 
on  the  face  of  the  earth,  with  the  brand  of  blood  on  his 
soul.  Must  she  not  pity  the  wanderer  ?  Could  she  re- 
pulse her  own  father  ?  Would  not  God  forsake  her  in  his 
wrath  if  she  broke  one  of  the  canons  His  own  finger  had 
written  ? 

"  Father,"  she  cried,  turning  and  laying  her  head  con- 
fidingly on  his  shoulder,  "  forgive  me — my  reason  has  been 
drowned  in  unshed  tears." 

The  tears  so  long  locked  in  frozen  apathy  here  burst 
forth,  and  she  wept  till  her  very  being  seemed  dissolved — 
wept,  like  an  infant,  on  the  bosom  from  which  she  had  so 
lately  recoiled. 

Rheinthus,  for  such  was  the  name  of  the  stranger,  told 
her  the  history  of  his  life,  which  we  will  condense  in  few 
words.  It  was  a  tale  of  love  and  sorrow ;  of  parental 
harshness,  filial  disobedience,  passionate  struggles  for 
independence,  resulting  in  wealth  which,  finding  none  to 
share  with  him,  hung  upon  him  a  curse  instead  of  a  bless- 
ing. He  was  the  only  son  of  opulent  parents,  and  he 
loved  a  lovely  but  indigent  girl,  whom  he  clandestinely 
wedded.  Soon  after  the  marriage,  he  was  urged  by  a  rich 
uncle  to  go  to  India,  where  an  opportunity  offered  of 
making  a  splendid  fortune.  Eagerly  accepting  a  proposi- 
tion which  promised  him  independence  and  release  from 
parental  despotism,  he  left  his  young  and  unacknowledged 
bride,  in  the  hope  of  a  speedy  return.  This  was  retarded 
by  the  lingering  illness  and  death  of  his  uncle,  who  left 
him  the  heir  of  his  immense  wealth.  She,  a  wife,  without 
the  protection  of  a  husband's  name,  became  a  mother,  and, 
discarded  by  her  own  parents,  in  the  extremity  of  her 
despair  clasped  her  infant  in  her  arms,  and  sought  the 
princely  mansion  of  his  father.  From  his  door  she  was 
rudely  driven,  and,  believing  herself  forsaken  by  him  she 
loved,  from  his  protracted  absence,  which  had  long  since 
awakened  the  most  agonizing  doubts  and  fears,  she  wan- 
dered without  any  haven  in  view,  till  she  heard  of  Father 
Angelo's  world-secluded  home,  and  resolved  to  commit 
her  infant  to  his  guardianship,  while  she  herself  plunged 
uncalled  into  the  abyss  of  eternity. 
4 


50  THE  LOST  DAUGHTER. 

The  husband  returned,  wealthy  beyond  his  most  sanguine 
hopes,  to  hear  that  his  wife  and  child  had  been  turned 
pitilessly  from  his  own  father's  door,  to  search  for  them 
with  unavailing  efforts,  and  at  last  to  resign  himself  to  the 
hopelessness  of  his  despair.  From  clime  to  clime  he 
dragged  his  heavy  and  weary  heart.  About  the  time  of 
the  death  of  Julian  and  the  flight  of  Clarence,  he  paused 
in  his  travels  in  the  town  where  Blanche  resided.  The 
hundred  tongues  of  rumor  were  busy  with  the  history  of 
her  life,  and  the  widowed,  childless  Rheinthus  felt  a  con- 
viction, almost  amounting  to  certainty,  that  the  foundling 
of  Rockiest  and  this  lost  daughter  were  one.  Days, 
weeks,  and  even  months  glided  by  before  Blanche  was 
allowed  to  leave  the  chamber  she  had  sought  with  the 
arrowy  words  of  Clarence  quivering  in  her  heart.  At 
length,  he  obtained  admittance,  and  the  result  has  been, 
told. 

A  few  weeks  after  the  restoration  of  Blanche  to  her 
father,  the  Arctic  dove  was  seen  winging  its  way  over  the 
blue  waters  that  laved  the  shore  of  the  hermitage.  The 
gray  and  moss-crowned  rock,  the  aged  oak,  the  green 
solitude  of  the  young  oaken  thicket — all  remained  un- 
changed ;  but  in  herself — what  a  mighty  transformation 
was  wrought !  She  had  gone  forth  a  guileless,  saintly, 
blessed  child ;  she  returned  a  heart-crushed,  smitten, 
blighted  woman.  She  went  forth  a  scarce  unfolded  flower, 
sparkling  with  the  dews  of  the  morning  ;  she  came  back 
a  faded  blossom,  bearing  a  dark  spot  on  its  petals,  that 
told  of  the  gnawings  of  the  canker-worm  in  their  folds. 

Leaning  back  in  her  father's  arms,  she  fixed  her  eyes  on 
the  hoary  summit  of  the  rock,  on  which  a  white  fleece  of 
summer  clouds  was  softly  resting,  and  it  seemed  to  her 
that  she  could  see  the  wings  of  her  guardian  angel  there, 
turning  their  silvery  plumage  to  the  light. 

"  Oh !  my  forsaken  God,"  she  cried,  in  the  depths  of 
her  soul,  "  I  return  to  thy  altar.  I  bring  thee  a  wounded 
and  bleeding,  a  broken  and  contrite  spirit.  0  God,  reject 
it  not !" 

When  she  stepped  upon  the  grassy  bank,  from  whose 
gentle  slope  she  could  see  the  low  walls  of  the  hermitage, 
a  cold  dew  gathered  on  her  temples.  What  if  Father 
Angelo  were  dead  !  She  looked  in  vain  for  a  glimpse  of 


THE   LOST  DAUGHTER.  51 

his  gray-robed  and  ancestral  form.  He  was  wont  to  walk 
abroad  in  that  hour  to  worship  God  in  a  "temple  not 
made  with  hands."  In  silence  she  led  the  way  to  the 
cabin,  sighing  as  the  long  grass  rustled  around  her, 
thinking  it  whispered  of  graves.  She  stood  in  the  en- 
trance of  the  cabin,  and  an  irrepressible  cry  escaped  her 
lips.  Extended  on  a  couch  near  the  open  window,  through 
which  he  could  gaze  through  the  "  golden  vistas"  of  sun- 
set into  an  inner  heaven,  lay  that  beloved  and  revered 
form  she  remembered  in  undecaying  grandeur  and  time- 
defying  strength.  His  locks  could  not  be  whiter  than 
they  were  when  she  last  saw  them  gilt  with  sunbeams, 
representing  in  his  towering  height  and  snow-crowned 
brow  the  Mont  Blanc  of  his  race ;  but  now  they  fell  life- 
lessly over  his  sunken  temples,  their  silver  lustre  dim  and 
defaced.  At  the  sound  of  that  thrilling  cry,  he  turned 
his  eye  toward  the  door,  and  beheld  the  pallid  and  altered 
countenance  of  his  adopted  child. 

"  My  Blanche,  my  child,  my  darling,  my  lamb  !"  he  ex- 
claimed, extending  his  arms  from  the  bed,  and  leaning 
feebly  forward. 

"  Oh,  my  father,"  she  cried,  springing  into  his  embrace, 
and  pillowing  her  head  on  his  bosom,  "  you  told  me,  if 
the  storm  arose  and  the  lightning  flashed,  I  should  find 
shelter  again  in  these  beloved  arms.  Hide  me,  hide  me 
forever  in  their  sacred  fold." 

"And  is  it  even  so,  my  child  ?"  said  the  aged  saint, 
passing  his  hand  fondly  over  the  bright  locks,  that  fell 
sweeping  over  his  breast.  "  Dost  thou  come  like  the  re- 
turning prodigal,  weary  of  the  husks  of  earthly  pleasure, 
and  hungering  for  the  unleavened  bread  of  our  Heavenly 
Father's  board  ?" 

"  Peace,  peace,  0  father  !  I  pray  but  for  peace.  Hope 
and  joy  are  dead.  All  I  ask  is  rest,  rest  from  the  strife 
of  human  passions." 

"  Peace  dwellethwith  God  ;  "  I  will  remember  the  years 
of  the  right  hand  of  the  Most  High,"  cried  the  hermit, 
looking  reverently  upward.  "Peace,"  he  added,  "was 
the  last  legacy  of  our  adorable  Redeemer  to  his  mourning 
disciples.  The  soul  that  remains  true  to  its  divine  espou- 
sals basks  in  eternal  sunshine.  The  clouds  roll  far  below. 
Oh,  my  Blanche,  would  that  these  dying  arms  could  bear 


52  THE   LOST   DAUGHTER. 

thee  even  now  to  the  footstool  of  eternal  Peace !  But 
who  is  this  ?"  cried  he,  observing,  for  the  first  time,  the 
stately  form  of  Rheinthus,  who  stood  near  the  door,  un- 
willing to  intrude  on  the  first  moments  of  a  meeting  so 
sad. 

"  It  is  my  father,"  answered  Blanche,  rising,  and  taking 
the  hand  of  Rheinthns,  and  leading  him  to  the  bedside. 
"  He  never  forsook  my  mother.  He  has  sought  her  sorrow- 
ing through  the  world.  He  has  come  to  weep  over  her 
grave." 

"  Then  you  will  not  be  left  comfortless  and  unprotected. 
God  be  praised  !  But  Clarence,  my  daughter — " 

"  Spare  me  now,  father.     To-morrow  I  will  tell  all." 

Naomi,  who  had  gone  to  the  spring  for  water,  entered 
at  this  moment,  and  wept  for  joy  at  beholding  her  darling 
once  more,  and  then  wept  for  grief  at  the  sight  of  her 
wilted  bloom. 

Blanche  dared  not  ask  Father  Angelo  why  he  was  lying  so 
pale  and  apparently  helpless  there.  As  it  seemed  to  her  that 
he  had  never  known  youth,  so  it  appeared  that  he  could 
never  experience  decay.  He  seemed  too  grand,  too  strong, 
too  much  like  her  idea  of  the  Deity  to  die.  She  had  never 
looked  on  death  in  the  human  form ;  but  she  had  seen 
the  wounded  bird  fall  quivering  to  the  ground,  then  stiffen 
and  remain  pulseless  and  still.  She  had  seen  the  flowers 
of  summer  and  the  leaves  of  autumn  wither  and  turn  to 
shriveled  scrolls ;  and  she  had  seen  also  the  tree  of  the 
forest  scathed  by  lightning,  and  fall,  a  blasted  corpse,  in 
the  midst  of  the  green  woods.  Father  Angelo's  enfeebled 
and  prostrate  form  reminded  her  of  those  ruins  of  nature, 
and  she  felt  a  conviction  that  he  too  was  passing  away. 
He  had  taught  her  to  look  upon  death  as  the  birth  of 
eternal  life,  upon  the  grave  as  a  bed  whose  curtains  were 
the  skies,  whose  pillow  the  bosom  of  the  Saviour.  But 
she  knew  that  death  was  still  and  cold,  and  the  grave  dark 
and  cold,  and  there  was  mystery  and  awe  in  the  thought. 

Father  Angelo  knew  that,  like  the  patriarchs  of  old,  he 
was  about  to  sleep  with  his  fathers.  He  had  but  one  wish 
on  earth,  and  that  was  to  see  the  child  of  his  adoption 
before  he  departed  hence  and  was  seen  no  more.  No 
disease  racked  his  frame  or  enfeebled  the  glorious  strength 
of  his  intellect.  He  had  reached  the  goal  of  life,  not  a 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  53 

jaded  traveler  panting  with  the  heat  and  burden  of  the  day, 
but  a  girded  pilgrim,  rejoicing  in  the  prospect  of  calm 
repose. 

Rheinthus  either  lingered  by  the  grave  of  his  wife,  or 
wandered  on  the  banks  of  the  stream,  whose  melancholy 
gurglings  seemed  still  to  tell  of  her  sad  doom,  while 
Blanche  clung  to  the  side  of  him  from  whom  she  knew 
she  was  soon  to  be  separated.  All  her  early  feelings  of 
devotion  rekindled  in  this  holy  and  intimate  communion. 
The  spark  from  heaven  once  more  descended  on  the  altar 
of  her  heart,  and  the  smoke  and  flame  of  the  sacrifice  went 
up  from  its  ruined  shrine. 

As  Father  Angelo  drew  near  his  last  hour,  he  seemed 
to  have  glimpses  of  futurity  flashing  with  glory  on  his  soul. 
Like  Moses  on  the  heights  of  Nebo,  he  beheld  the  green 
fields  and  sunlit  waters  of  the  promised  laud.  As  the 
twilight  shadow  of  death,  cold  and  gray,  came  stealing 
over  him,  a  supernatural  lustre  lighted  up  his  eyes,  and 
illumined  the  gathering  darkness. 

"  The  bridge  is  sinking,"  he  cried,  and  his  voice,  though 
low,  was  clear  and  unbroken.  "  One  by  one  the  frail 
planks  are  giving  way.  The  waters  are  rising  between, 
higher  and  higher.  They  are  roaring  behind,  dark  and 
unfathomable.  They  are  rolling  before,  in  all  the  depth 
and  grandeur  of  a  coming  eternity.  But  the  Son  of  God 
is  walking  on  the  billows,  and  they  fall  sluinberously  away 
into  a  smooth  sea  of  burning  glass." 

Sometimes  the  language  of  Scripture  came  rnshing  to 
his  memory  with  the  fervor  of  inspiration. 

"And  I  looked,"  said  he,  lifting  his  prophetic  eyes  to 
heaven,"  and  beheld  a  white  cloud,  and  upon  the  cloud  one 
sat  like  unto  the  Son  of  Man,  having  on  his  head  a  golden 
crown,  and  in  his  hand  a  sharp  sickle.  Come,  thou  reap- 
ing angel — the  clusters  are  hanging  heavy  on  the  vine. 
The  grapes  are  ready  for  the  wine-press.  Come,  in  dyed 
garments  from  Bozrah,  traveling  in  the  greatness  of  thy 
strength.  Thou  who  bearest  the  unutterable  name,  wrap 
me  in  the  blood-stained  folds  of  thy  mantle,  and  I  shall 
be  made  whiter  than  snow." 

Blanche  listened  in  speechless  awe  while  he  thus  com- 
muned with  his  Saviour  and  his  God  She  dared  not  in- 
terrupt this  sublime  communion.  She  hardly  dared  to 


54  THE  LOST  DAUGHTER. 

breatne  lest  she  should  disturb  the  celestial  aspirations  of 
his  departing  spirit.  But  she  yearned  for  some  token  of 
love  from  the  dying  saint.  Like  Elisha,  gazing  after  the 
chariot  wheels  of  fire  that  bore  away  the  ascending  pro- 
phet, she  waited  for  the  backward  look  of  the  heart,  re- 
tarding for  one  moment  the  upward  flight  of  the  soul. 

"Father,"  she  softly  exclaimed,  during  a  solemn  pause, 
"  will  you  not  bless  me  ere  you  depart  ?  Have  you  not  one 
blessing  even  for  me,  oh  my  father  ?" 

Laying  one  cold  hand  slowly  on  her  head,  and  feebly 
raising  the  other  to  heaven — 

"  I  bless  thee,  my  child,  my  once  heaven-dedicated  child 
• — and  thou  wilt  be  blessed.  Remain  not  here  when  I  am 
gone.  Go  with  thy  earthly  father,  and  be  to  him  all  thou 
hast  been  to  me.  Walk  in  white  garments,  and  keep  them 
pure  and  unspotted  from  the  world.  Walk  in  white — an 
angel  of  mercy  and  purity,  a  daughter  of  charity,  a  child 
of  grace.  Should  thine  erring  and  unfortunate  husband  bo 
again  restored  to  thee,  remember,  unless  he  who  turned  to 
crimson  the  water  at  Can  a  shall  be  present  at  the  reunion, 
the  day  will  come  when,  instead  of  the  winecup,  there  shall 
be  blood,  and  for  the  wedding-garment,  sackcloth  and 
ashes." 

At  last  his  eyes  gently  closed,  and  an  expression  of 
ineffable  placidity  settled  on  his  pallid  lips. 

Blanche,  who  had  never  looked  on  death,  knew,  by  the 
awful  stillness  of  repose,  that  it  was  there ;  but  she  felt 
no  terror — even  grief  it  seemed  sacrilege  to  feel.  Her 
father  led  her  from  the  room,  leaving  the  faithful  Naomi 
alone  with  the  dead. 

.  "  Oh  1"  she  exclaimed,  "  if  this  be  death,  who  would 
not  welcome  its  coming  ?  I  have  heard  him  called  the 
King  of  Terrors.  Surely  he  is  an  angel'of  peace  1" 

And,  when  she  was  again  admitted  into  the  chamber 
of  death,  she  hung  over  that  form,  now  involved  in  the 
solemn  mystery  of  dissolution,  with  strange  delight.  Even 
the  chill  of  mortality  that  penetrated  her  heart,  when  she 
pressed  her  hand  on  the  icy  cold  forehead,  communicated 
more  rapture  than  dread  as  it  thrilled  through  her  frame. 
She  kissed  the  lips,  where  n,  smile  of  more  than  mortal 
sweetness  was  lingering.  She  smoothed  the  snowy  locks 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  55 

back  from  the  majestic  brow,  now  the  marble  throne  of 
everlasting  rest. 

"  Oh  death  !"  she  murmured,  "  thou  art  lovely — oh 
death  !  thou  art  grand.  Now  I  see  that  man  was  made 
in  the  image  of  his  God.  Life  may  deface  it,  but  death 
restores  it.  The  impress  of  the  Divinity  is  here.  Oh  ! 
thou  glorious  temple,"  she  added,  laying  her  head  on 
Father  Angelo's  shrouded  breast,  "  though  the  Deity  be 
departed,  the  shrine  is  holy.  I  will  worship  here  till  the 
ruins  are  covered  with  dust." 

And  to  dust  they  were  committed,  by  the  side  of  the 
hapless  suicide,  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  moss-grown 
rock.  Blanche  would  gladly  have  remained  longer  in  the 
solitude  of  the  hermitage,  but  her  father  hastened  her  de- 
parture, and  she  obeyed  his  will.  She  prayed  Naomi  to 
accompany  them;  but  the  faithful  creature  refused  to 
leave  the  ashes  of  the  master  she  so  much  loved. 

"I  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  world,"  she  said  ;  "for 
the  little  time  I  shall  remain  on  earth,  I  would  not  leave 
the  grave  of  my  master  for  the  throne  of  the  universe." 

"  But  when  you  die,  Naomi,"  cried  Blanche,  clinging  to 
her,  as  in  the  early  days  of  her  dependence,  "  there  will 
be  no  one  near  to  minister  to  your  wants,  or  to  make  your 
bed  of  earth  by  his  side." 

"  Here  is  my  home,"  cried  Naomi,  "  and  here  shall  be 
my  grave.  I  shall  never  leave  Rockrest." 

"  Then  I  will  come  again  to  you,  my  foster-mother," 
cried  Blanche,  giving  her  a  parting  embrace.  "  And  may 
God  bless  you  forever  and  ever." 

And  Blanche  went  forth  once  more  into  the  world, 
bearing  in  her  heart  the  mission  given  her  by  the  dying 
hermit. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

IT  was  probably  about  two  years  after  the  death  of 
Father  Angelo,  that  a  young  man  went  slowly  winding  up 
the  solitary  path  that  led  to  the  hermitage.  His  face  was 
pale  and  his  brow  sad,  and  he  looked  around  with  the  air 


56  THE   LOST  DAUGHTER. 

of  one  who  was  gazing  on  .well-remembered  scenes.  He 
entered  the  cabin,  now  deserted  and  damp,  and  shuddered 
at  the  filmy  drapery  of  cobweb  that  hung  upon  the  walls 
and  swept  across  the  faded  pipes  of  the  organ.  He 
touched  the  keys,  and  recoiled  at  the  cold  touch  and 
mournful  sound  rising  beneath  his  fingers.  The  gray 
serge  robe  of  Father  Angelo  hung  near  the  organ,  his 
oaken  staff  stood  in  a  corner. 

"  She  is  not  here  I"  exclaimed  the  young  man.  "  There 
is  nought  but  desolation  and  death  !  Blanche,  Father 
Angelo,  and  Naomi,  all  gone.  No  living  voice  to  speak, 
no  living  ear  to  listen.  There  was  one  grave  here  before. 
How  many  shall  I  find  now  ?" 

With  a  deep  sigh  he  left  the  cabin,  and  sought  the  path 
that  wound  round  the  rock.  It  was  autumn,  and  the  dry 
leaves  rustled  mournfully  under  his  feet  He  came  to  the 
spot  where  he  had  once  stood  with  Blanche,  by  a  green 
mound,  while  she  scattered  wild  flowers  over  it.  it  was 
now  covered  thick  with  the  many-colored  leaves  of  the 
dying  season,  as  well  as  a  hillock  near,  which  heaved  higher 
and  was  of  a  more  irregular  form.  While  he  stood  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  this  mound,  whose  length  exceeded  even 
the  six  feet  bed  of  earth,  the  usual  inheritance  of  man,  a 
sudden  gust  of  wind  blew  aside  some  of  the  bro  *vn  and 
yellow  leaves,  and  he  saw,  with  horror,  something  like  the 
dress  of  woman.  He  remembered  the  dark  peasaat  dress 
of  Naomi,  and  took  in  at  once  the  mournful  history  of 
fidelity  unto  death.  Father  Angelo  had  died,  and  the 
devoted  creature,  left  to  pine  in  solitary  grief,  feeling  her 
last  hour  approaching,  had  dragged  herself  like  the  faith- 
ful dog  to  die  upon  the  grave  of  her  master.  There  was 
no  other  grave.  Blanche  was  not  there,  unless  she  lay 
folded  in  the  same  winding-sheet  of  her  adopted  father. 
Clarence  turned  away,  when  the  thought  arrested  him 
that  perhaps  life  still  lingered  in  that  uuburied  form,  life 
which  he  might  perchance  recall.  Bending  down,  he  care- 
fully gathered  the  leaves  that  had  fallen  thickly  over  the 
face,  till  it  lay  exposed  to  view.  With  an  exclamation  of 
horror,  he  again  dropped  them  aud  leaned  shivering 
against  the  rock. 

Oh,  the  grave  is  kind  !  Let  man  respect  it.  It  hides 
in  its  sunless  recess  the  terrible,  the  humiliating  process 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  57 

of  corruption,  the  change  from  beauty  to  ashes,  from  the 
glory  of  life  to  the  dimness  and  lowliness  of  dust.  Clar- 
ence shuddered  at  the  thought  of  leaving  these  poor  de- 
caying remains  without  coffin  or  burial.  But  what  could 
he  do  ?  What  assistance  could  he  obtain  in  that  deep 
solitude  ?  And  ought  he,  if  he  could,  divorce  that  hum- 
ble and  devoted  being  from  the  clay  on  which  her  mould- 
ering bosom  was  closely  pressed  ?  With  a  feeling  of 
tenderness  and  respect,  caused  by  the  remembrance  of 
her  love,  and  care  for  his  lost  Blanche,  he  re-entered  the 
cabin,  took  the  long  gray  robe  of  Father  Angelo,  and, 
returning  to  the  spot,  spread  it  as  a  pall  over  the  leaf- 
strewn  body. 

Where  now  should  he  turn  his  steps  in  search  of  his 
forsaken  bride  ?  He  had  sought  her  at  his  own  home, 
and  found  her  not.  He  had  there  been  told  of  the  coming 
of  the  stranger,  who  called  himself  her  father,  and  of  her 
departure  with  him  to  Rockrest.  Deploring  the  jealous 
madness  which  had  caused  the  death  of  his  friend  and  the 
destruction  of  his  own  happiness,  and  unable  to  endure 
the  anguish  of  a  longer  separation,  he  had  ventured  to 
return  from  exile,  resolved  to  bear  Blanche  with  him  to 
some  foreign  land,  far  from  the  scene  of  the  fatal  tragedy, 
whose  remembrance  darkened  his  life.  But  she  was  gone 
with  her  new-found  father,  without  leaving  one  trace  to 
indicate  the  course  she  had  taken. 

"  I  have  destroyed  her  love  I"  cried  the  conscience- 
stricken  husband.  "  I  wounded  her  by  my  suspicions, 
outraged  her  by  my  accusations,  and  crushed  her  by  my 
violence.  She  no  longer  lives  for  me  ;  but  I  will  follow 
her  from  land  to  land  and  sea  to  sea,  giving  up  the  pursuit 
only  with  life." 

Years  passed  away,  and  the  memory  of  Blanche  grew 
sad  and  pale,  like  the  tints  of  the  vanishing  rainbow. 
Wherever  he  went  he  frequented  the  abodes  of  wealth  and 
the  halls  of  fashion,  seeking  in  vain  that  fair  and  childish 
form,  whose  image,  shadowy  and  unearthly  as  it  now 
seemed,  shielded  him  from  the  impressions  of  beauty  and 
the  allurements  of  sin. 

He  was  in  Paris.  He  was  wandering  near  the  close  of 
day  among  the  tombs  of  Pere  le  Chaise,  that  crowded 
city  of  the  dead.  He  stood,  with  folded  arms  and  pensive 


58  THE   LOST  DAUGHTER 

brow,  by  the  tomb  of  Abelard  and  Eloise,  drawn  by  the 
powerful  magnetism  of  genius,  love,  misfortune  and  death, 
wondering  if  those  now  mouldering  hearts  ever  throbbed 
as  passionately  as  his  own,  and  trying  to  realize  the  hum- 
bling truth  that  he  too  must  lie  down  in  the  dust  like  them, 
less  happy,  for  he  must  make  his  last  bed  in  loneliness  and 
gloom,  and  no  loving  eyes  mourn  over  his  doom,  no  fond 
hand  mark  with  sacred  mementos  the  spot  where  he  lay. 
The  myriad  spires  of  the  city,  crimsoned  with  the  burning 
gold  of  the  setting  sun,  formed  a  striking  contrast  to  the 
scene  around  him.  He  could  see  in  the  distance  the 
green  line  of  trees  that  marked  the  sweep  of  the  Boule- 
vards, that  scene  of  brilliancy  and  gayety.  Around  him 
the  dark  foliage  of  the  cypress,  the  weeping  boughs  of  the 
willow,  funeral  garlands  twined  around  the  stones,  and 
crosses  illuminated  by  the  glow  of  the  west,  all  spoke  of 
the  life  consecrating,  by  the  most  touching  acts  of  tender- 
ness and  love,  the  memory  of  death.  The  hum  of  the  great 
city  came  rolling  like  a  distant  cataract  to  his  ears ;  but 
the  low  mournful  whisper  of  the  wind  through  the  grass, 
or  the  long,  sweeping  funeral  branches  above  him,  stole 
into  his  spirit  with  a  deeper  sound. 

While  he  thus  stood  self-absorbed  by  the  grave  of  those 
whose  sorrows  have  perhaps  softened  too  much  the  mem- 
ory of  their  guilt,  a  gentleman  and  lady  approached  and 
paused  by  the  monument,  apparently  drawn  by  the  same 
irresistible  attraction  to  which  he  himself  had  yielded. 
The  gentleman  had  a  commanding  figure  and  dignified 
bearing,  and  there  was  something  in  his  face  which  spake, 
as  plainly  as  words  could  utter  it,  that  he  was  linked  to 
the  dead  by  ties  as  strong  as  those  which  bound  him  to 
the  living.  The  lady  was  closely  vailed,  but  an  air  of 
youthful  grace  and  dignity  floated  round  her,  like  the  folds 
of  the  gossamer  web  that  she  gathered  from  the  breeze. 
The  gentleman  lifted  his  hat  courteously  from  his  head. 
Clarence  bowed  in  return,  drawing  back  at  the  same  time, 
so  that  they  could  approach  nearer  the  monument.  There 
was  something  in  the  gentle,  unspeakably  graceful  move- 
ments of  the  lady  that  reminded  him  of  Blanche  ;  but  she 
was  taller  and  of  fuller  proportions,  the  hair,  which  was 
visible  under  the  folds  of  her  vail,  was  of  much  darker 
hue,  and  the  gentlcmau  addressed  her  by  the  name  of 
Adella. 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  59 

After  lingering  a  moment,  they  passed  on  with  a  grace- 
ful sign  of  adieu,  while  Clarence  felt  an  increasing  curi- 
osity to  behold  the  features  concealed  by  that  nun-like 
vail.  He  saw  a  faded  rose  at  his  feet.  It  must  have 
fallen  from  her  hand  or  bosom,  and  he  gathered  it  up  as 
a  holy  relic.  He  wished  it  was  something  which  he  was 
authorized  to  restore,  as  it  would  serve  as  an  excuse  for 
following  her  and  seeking  an  introduction.  Obeying  an 
attraction  he  could  not  explain,  he  traced  her  footsteps 
and  observed  something  glittering  on  the  ground.  It 
was  a  bracelet  with  a  diamond  clasp,  composed  of  jet- 
black  hair,  braided  with  mingling  tresses  of  spotless 
white.  He  was  sure  it  must  have  fallen  from  the  arm  of 
the  lady,  and  that  it  was  a  treasure  for  whose  restoration 
she  would  be  grateful.  The  hair  of  dazzling  white  re- 
minded him  of  the  long,  prophetic  locks  of  Father  An- 
gel o  ;  but  the  name  engraven  on  the  back  of  the  golden 
setting  was  Adella,  and  destroyed  the  wild  hope  that  for  a 
moment  flashed  into  his  mind. 

Hastening  his  steps  so  as  not  to  lose  sight  of  the 
strangers,  he  overtook  them  soon  after  they  left  the  inclo- 
sure,  just  as  the  carriage  drew  up  in  which  they  were 
about  to  enter. 

"  Is  not  this  bracelet  yours,  madam  ?"  said  he,  extend- 
ing it  in  his  hand  to  the  lady,  who  turned  round  with  a  ges- 
ture of  surprise  at  his  approach.  "  I  found  it  in  the  bower 
of  linden  trees,  which  shade  the  ashes  of  De  Lille." 

Holding  out  one  beautiful,  ungloved  hand,  as  white  as 
alabaster,  while  she  pressed  with  the  other  the  folds  of  the 
vail  closer  to  her  breast,  she  said,  in  a  very  low  and 
sweet-toned  voice — 

"  It  is  indeed  mine,  and  very  precious  is  it  to  me.  I 
can  hardly  thank  you  sufficiently  for  restoring  it  to  me." 

"  Shall  I  reclasp  it  ?"  he  ventured  to  ask  ;  and  without 
waiting  for  permission,  he  encircled  her  fair  wrist  with  the 
gem.  It  reminded  him,  in  its  snowy  symmetry,  of  the  arm 
of  Blanche,  and  when  he  remembered  the  evening  he  saw 
her  watching  the  sparkling  brilliants  with  which  she  was 
adorned,  fearing  they  would  melt  away  like  dew-drops  in 
the  sunbeams.  With  a  deep  sigh,  he  relinquished  the 
hand,  which  showed  no  evidence  of  resentment  at  his  bold- 
ness, when  the  gentleman  accosted  him  with  marked  po- 


(30  THE  LOST  DAUGHTER. 

liteness,  and  giving  him  a  card  bearing  his  name,  requested 
of  him  the  same  favor.  "Lord  Ainsworth."  He  had 
learned  at  his  own  home  the  name  of  the  father  of  Blanche. 
Though  the  dissimilarity  of  height  and  size,  and  the  dif- 
ference in  the  color  of  the  hair,  and  in  the  name  of  the 
lady,  had  destroyed  his  first  wild  hope  with  regard  to  her, 
he  could  riot  help  associating  the  idea  of  Rheinthus  with 
this  very  dark  and  imposing-looking  man. 

"You  will  call  and  see  us  ?"  said  Lord  Ainsworth,  as- 
sisting the  lady  in  the  carriage  and  taking  a  seat  by  her 
side.  "  You  will  find  my  address  on  the  card.  If  I  n^is- 
take  not,  we  are  countrymen  as  well  as  strangers  in  this 
modern  Babel !" 

Clarence  bowed,  the  lady  leaned  her  head  on  the  shoul- 
der of  the  gentleman,  as  if  seized  with  sudden  faintness, 
and  the  carriage  drove  rapidly  away. 

The  next  evening  Clarence  called  at  the  lodgings  of 
Lord  Ainsworth. 

"My  daughter,"  said  the  nobleman,  introducing  the 
lady  now  no  longer  vailed. 

The  room  was  illuminated  by  shaded  lamps,  that  gave 
a  moonlight  and  subdued  lustre  to  every  object ;  and  seen 
through  this  soft,  hazy  atmosphere,  the  daughter  of  Ains- 
worth might  have  been  mistaken  for  a  beautiful  marble 
statue,  clothed  with  the  habiliments  of  life,  so  exquisitely 
moulded  were  her  features,  so  fair  and  uncolored  was  her 
cheek.  Her  hair  was  parted  simply  on  her  brow,  and 
braided  behind,  and  the  only  ornament  that  relieved  the 
simplicity  of  her  dress  was  the  bracelet  of  mingled  jet 
and  snow  encircling  her  arm.  Fascinated  and  bewildered 
by  her  resemblance  to  Blanche,  yet  feeling  that  it  was  only 
a  resemblance,  he  gazed  upon  her  with  an  earnestness  that 
bowed  her  glances  to  the  earth.  Gradually  recovering 
from  his  strange  embarrassment,  he  entered  into  conversa- 
tion with  Lord  Ainsworth,  in  which  Adella  soon  partici- 
pated with  grace  and  intelligence.  The  evening  passed 
away  like  a  dream  of  enchantment  amid  the  blended  charms 
of  music  and  conversation  ;  for  the  daughter  of  Ainsworth 
possessed  a  voice  of  celestial  melod}',  and  of  far  greater 
compass  and  cultivation  than  that  of  the  young  Blanche. 

"You  must  forgive  me,"  said  he,  when  he  beheld  her 
again  withdrawing  her  eyes  from  his  returning  gaze.  "  But 


THE   LOST   DAUGHTER.  61 

yonr  resemblance  to  a  friend  from  whom  I  have  been  long 
parted,  must  plead  my  excuse." 

"  I  trust  the  association  is  a  pleasing  one,"  she  replied, 
with  a  faint  smile. 

Ah,  that  smile  dispelled  the  illusion  !  When  Blanche 
smiled  it  was  like  bright  waters  dimpling  in  the  sun.  Her 
face  sparkled  all  over  in  a  burst  of  light  and  gladness. 
The  smile  of  Adella  was  pensive,  and  seemed  only  to  il- 
lume the  lips  over  which  it  flitted.  The  innocent  counte- 
nance of  Blanche  was  transparent  as  glass  ;  every  emo- 
tion of  her  soul  was  as  visible  as  if  it  shone  through 
crystal.  With  her  long,  vailing  lashes,  Adella  curtained 
the  windows  of  her  soul,  baffling  the  gaze  of  curiosity  and 
the  glance  of  admiration.  Blanche  was  a  creature  all 
impulse  and  passion  ;  Adella  calm  and  saintly  as  a  virgin 
priestess  of  the  temple  of  Vesta. 

Long  after  Clarence  was  gone,  Adella — or,  as  we  love 
better  to  call  her,  Blanche — sat  with  her  brow  leaning  on 
her  folded  hands.  She  had  met  him  again,  the  husband 
of  her  youth,  the  man  she  had  loved  with  more  than  East- 
ern idolatry,  from  whom  she  had  been  so  violently  sun- 
dered, and  whose  last  words  echoing  in  her  ears  were  more 
terrible  than  thunder,  and  sharper  than  a  two-edged 
sword.  She  had  met  him  again,  after  long  years  of  sepa- 
ration, herself  unrecognized,  and  tears,  bitter  and  show- 
ering, fell  from  her  eyes  over  the  vanished  dream  of  life. 
No  wild  pulsations  throbbed  in  her  heart,  no  lightning  of 
rapture  illumined  her  soul.  She  saw  him  sad,  darkened 
by  the  shadow  of  remorse,  and  she  pitied  him.  But  the 
bright  illusion  which  had  thrown  such  a  glory  round  him 
was  dispelled.  She  knew  him  as  an  erring  son  of  passion,  in- 
stead of  the  angel  of  light  whom  she  had  first  worshiped. 

Never  perhaps  had  a  human  being  changed,  in  the 
same  space  of  time,  so  much  as  Blanche.  The  storm 
which  had  wrecked  her  peace  had  strengthened  the  fibres 
of  her  character,  and  given  it  deeper  root  and  loftier 
growth.  At  the  death-bed  of  Father  Angelo  her  spirit 
received  a  new  consecration,  and  she  went  forth  into  the 
world  angel-strengthened  for  its  conflicts  and  trials.  Her 
father,  himself  an  accomplished  scholar  and  gifted  man, 
supplied  her  with  masters  in  every  art  and  science,  while 
travel  unfolded  for  her  its  mighty  volume  of  instruction. 


62  THE   LOST  DAUGHTER. 

Blanche  felt  as  if  surrounded  by  a  new  creation,  whore 
forms  of  beauty  and  power  unknown  before  enraptured 
her  vision.  Yet  amidst  all  the  new  and  glorious  influences 
under  which  her  mind  was  expanding,  she  never  forgot  the 
holy  mission  she  had  received  from  the  dying  Father  An- 
gelo.  As  the  heiress  of  her  father's  vast  wealth,  she  felt 
herself  the  almoner  of  Heaven's  bounties,  and  wherever 
she  went  she  sought  out  the  poor  and  the  afflicted,  and 
poured  balm  and  oil  into  the  bleeding  wounds  of  human- 
ity. While  her  character  was  thus  assuming  a  pure  and 
celestial  aspect,  her  countenance  also  wore  a  more  heavenly 
and  spiritual  loveliness.  Her  almost  infantine  beauty 
disappeared,  and  gave  place  to  something  more  exalted 
and  womanly.  The  shade  darkened  and  darkened  in  her 
hair  and  eyes,  making  her  face  seem  still  fairer  and  purer, 
like  the  shadows  of  a  moonlight  iiight  on  the  water, 
making  the  heaven  ray  more  dazzling  by  contrast.  And 
there  was  something  else  which  contributed  more  than 
all  to  destroy  the  identity  of  the  Blanche  of  Rockrest  with 
the  Blanche  whom  Clarence  beheld  at  the  tomb  of  Abelard 
and  Eloise.  It  was  the  shade  of  experience  which  rested, 
in  a  soft  mist,  on  the  fringes  of  her  eyes,  and  lingered 
round  the  paler  roses  of  her  lips.  The  haunting  expres- 
sion of  the  past  subdued  her  features,  while  devotion  cast 
its  saintly  halo  above,  and  glorified  their  charms. 

She  did  not  wonder  that  Clarence  had  not  recognized 
her,  though  her  resemblance  to  herself  had  struck  him  so 
powerfully.  Her  father,  in  consequence  of  the  death  of 
his  father,  now  bore  a  titled  name,  and,  according  to  his 
earnest  desire,  she  had  adopted  that  of  her  mother.  She 
now  rejoiced  in  these  circumstances,  as  they  favored  her 
present  wishes.  She  could  study  the  character  of  her  hus- 
band, discover  if  his  heart  were  still  true  to  her  remem- 
brance, or  if  her  present  self  had  power  to  rival  her 
former  self  in  his  affections.  She  could  ascertain  if 
jealousy,  "  cruel  as  the  grave,"  still  lurked  in  his  bosom,  or 
whether,  like  the  arch-serpent  of  Eden,  it  had  been  crushed 
under  the  feet  of  the  Son  of  Man ;  and,  above  all,  the 
apparently  extinguished  flame  of  love  might  rekindle  in 
her  own  breast.  The  union  his  blood-stained  hand  had 
once  severed  must  be  sanctified  by  love  ere  it  should  be 
again  renewed ;  and  that  love,  too,  hallowed  by  religion. 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  63 

before  she  conld  lean  upon  it  as  the  anchor  of  the  heart, 
sure  and  steadfast. 

And  oh,  how  she  longed  that  she  might  love  again  !  not 
with  the  blind  instinct  which  drew  her  to  the  first  form  of 
youthful  beauty  which  had  ever  beamed  upon  her  sight, 
but  with  that  noble  sympathy,  that  electric  attraction 
which  blends  the  soul  with  a  kindred  soul,  till  they  both 
rise,  as  it  were,  in  one  cloud  of  incense  unto  heaven. 

Weeks  glided  after  weeks,  and  found  Clarence  day  by 
day  the  companion  of  Blanche.  Bound  by  a  spell  which 
grew  stronger  and  stronger,  he  lingered  at  her  side,  strug- 
gling with  a  love  which  he  deemed  faithlessness  to  the 
rights  of  his  supplanted  wife.  The  passion  he  had  cher- 
ished for  her  seemed  a  fading  mirage  to  the  glowing  reality 
of  his  present  feelings.  He  tried  to  vindicate  himself  to 
his  conscience  by  repeating  that  it  was  her  remarkable 
resemblance  to  Blanche  which  first  attracted  and  charmed 
him ;  but  the  stern  monitor  would  not  suffer  its  warning 
voice  to  be  stilled.  It  would  whisper,  and  loudly  too,  that 
if  Adella  knew  the  history  of  Blanche,  he  would  be  forever 
banished  from  her  sight.  Every  day  he  tried  to  summon 
resolution  to  tell  her  ;  but  in  her  presence  he  forgot  every 
thing  but  his  love  of  her,  and  the  fatal  consequences  of 
such  a  discovery. 

At  length  he  fell  sick,  worn  by  the  struggles  of  contend- 
ing passions,  and  a  week  passed  without  his  calling  at  Lord 
Aimsworth's.  When  he  came,  he  was  pale  and  languid, 
and  told  her  he  was  about  to  bid  her  farewell. 

"  SQ  soon  1"  said  she,  the  color  going  out  of  her  lips. 
"  So  soon  1" 

The  crisis  of  her  fate  was  then  near.  Would  he  go 
without  revealing  the  love  which  his  every  look  and  action 
so  eloquently  expressed  ?  Would  he  reveal  it  without,  at 
the  same  time,  declaring  the  wedded  ties  that  bound  him 
to  herself?  Had  her  own  love  really  revived  during  this 
daily  intercourse,  and  was  it  the  throes  of  its  awakening 
life  that  now  caused  her  heart  to  throb  so  wildly,  to  ache 
so  deeply  ?  She  trembled  for  his  honor  ;  she  trembled 
at  the  mighty  dependencies  which  hung  on  that  single 
hour. 

At  the  sight  of  her  unrepressed  emotion,  the  imprisoned 
feelings  of  Clarence  burst  their  long  restraint,  and  he  told 


64  THE   LOST   DAUGHTER 

her  all  his  love  and  all  his  despair.  lie  related  the  whole 
history  of  his  life  as  connected  with  herself,  his  jealousy, 
remorse,  wanderings,  return,  fruitless  searches  ;  his  visit  to 
Rockrest,  and  subsequent  ramblings.  Then,  with  burning 
eloquence,  he  dwelt  upon  the  new  feelings  she  had  inspired, 
his  struggles  to  subdue  them,  struggles  which  left  him 
only  more  hopelessly  enslaved. 

"  An  now,"  he  exclaimed,  casting  himself  at  her  feet, 
and  seizing  both  trembling  hands  in  his,  "you  know  the 
wretch  that  prostrates  himself  before  you,  imploring  you 
to  have  mercy  upon  him.  I  am  a  monster  ;  for  I  outraged 
by  suspicion  and  insult  the  purest  and  most  angelic  of 
earth's  daughters.  I  am  a  murderer ;  for  I  destroyed  with 
deliberate  aim  the  life  of  my  friend.  I  am  a  perjured 
villain,  who,  unworthy  of  the  boon  of  life,  asks  only  the 
mournful  privilege  of  dying  at  your  feet." 

As  Clarence  thus  poured  out  his  soul  in  an  agony  of 
love  and  remorse,  with  his  hands  firmly  grasping  hers,  and 
his  eyes,  with  all  the  intensity  of  passion,  riveted  on  her 
face,  the  blood,  at  first  slowly,  then  quickly,  then  in  a 
rushing  torrent,  spread  over  her  forehead,  cheeks,  and 
bosom.  Even  her  fingers  glowed  with  the  warm,  rosy 
light.  It  was  the  resurrection  dawn  of  love,  the  crimson 
hue  of  its  morning  twilight  stealing  over  her  being. 

"Clarence,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  and  bending  her 
head  so  that  her  breath  sighed  upon  his  cheek,  "I  too  am 
bound.  My  vows  are  pledged  to  another — and  that 
other  " 

Clarence  started  to  his  feet,  and  gazed  upon  her  as  if 
his  glance  would  burn  into  her  soul.  Something  seemed 
to  flash  upon  him  suddenly,  electrically.  He  was  weak 
and  dizzy.  He  put  his  hands  to  his  temples,  uttered  an 
indistinct  exclamation,  reeled,  and  fell. 

How  long  he  remained  insensible  he  knew  not,  for  the 
time  was  a  blank.  When  he  awoke  to  consciousness  he 
was  reclining  on  a  couch,  whose  curtains  were  partially 
drawn  so  as  to  exclude  the  light  from  his  brow.  A  figure 
was  bending  over  him  that  looked  more  like  a  hovering 
seraph  than  an  inhabitant  of  this  world.  It  was  clad  in  a 
white  robe,  gathered  round  the  waist  by  a  white  girdle, 
and  flowing  down  to  its  feet  in  long  redundant  folds.  The 
hair  of  the  seeming  vision  hung  loose  and  mantling  over 


THE  LOST  DAUGHTER.  65 

its  snowy  drapery,  its  arms  of  celestial  whiteness  were 
extended  as  if  to  embrace  him,  and  its  starry  eyes,  glisten- 
ing with  tears,  reflected  their  lustre  on  his  pallid  face. 

For  one  moment  he  thought  he  was  in  heaven,  and  that 
the  spirit  of  his  child-bride,  expanded  into  the  full  glory 
of  immortal  womanhood,  was  greeting  him  to  its  blissful 
abodes. 

"Blanche!  Blanche  I"  he  exclaimed,  leaning  forward 
and  opening  his  arms,  "my  angel  wife  !  my  own  immortal 
bride !" 

"Yes,  Clarence,  thy  immortal  bride!"  she  cried,  throw- 
ing herself,  in  all  the  abandonment  of  restored  affection, 
on  the  bosom  of  her  husband  ;  "  for  not  alone  for  time  are 
our  hearts  rewedded.  The  vows  I  now  renew  are  for 
eternity.  Oh,  Clarence  I  oh,  my  husband  !  the  love  which 
now  rises  from  the  grave  of  passion  is  pure,  heavenly,  and 
undefiled.  It  is  kindred  to  the  divine  love  which  God, 
himself  inspires.  Clarence,  my  beloved,  is  it  thus  you  feel 
for  me  ?  Can  you,  in  this  solemn  hour  of  our  reunion, 
take  me  by  the  hand  and  say,  in  the  name  of  the  adorable 
Redeemer,  that  you  love  me  with  a  full,  undoubting  trust, 
that  you  love  me  with  the  soul  as  well  as  the  heart,  and 
that  you  think  less  of  our  fleeting  wedlock  on  earth  than 
of  the  everlasting  marriage-feast  which  is  prepared  for  us 
hereafter  ?" 

Clarence  raised  himself  from  the  couch,  and,  taking  the 
hand  of  Blanche  firmly  in  his  own,  knelt  at  her  side,  and 
with  fervor  and  humility  invoked  the  blessing  of  Heaven 
on  their  reunion. 

"  My  Christian  bride,"  he  cried,  again  folding  her  in  his 
arms,  "to  your  holier,  purer  influence  I  henceforth  and 
forever  yield  myself.     Be  my  partner  on  earth,  my  guide 
to  heaven — my  companion  in  Eternity." 
6 


THE  MAIDEN  OF  JUDEA. 


HOMEWARD  the  weary  warrior  bent 
His  footsteps,  from  the  bannered  tent ; 
Triumph  was  his  ;  the  sword  he  wore, 
Victory  from  twenty  cities  bore. 
Yet  not  for  fame,  with  life-blood  bought, 
Had  Gilead's  dauntless  champion  fought ; 
In  Heaven's  own  panoply  he  braved 
The  battle,  and  his  country  saved. 

He  gazed  where,  reddened  by  the  glow, 
The  oriental  mountains  throw, 
When  their  high-reaching  brows  arrest 
The  rosy  tints  that  gild  the  west ; 
He  saw  those  native  walls  afar, 
Where  beamed  the  pure  and  vestal  star 
Whose  rays  of  filial  beauty  shone 
For  him,  and  for  her  God  alone. 
He  thought  how  soon  her  maiden  charm 
Would  fill  a  conquering  father's  arms ; 
And  as  the  tide  of  feeling  swept 
O'er  his  full  heart,  the  victor  wept. 

But  hark  !  what  strain  of  music  calls 
The  echoes  from  their  rocky  halls  ? 
More  near  it  floats,  in  triumph  swelling, 
As  if  some  theme  of  glory  telling. 
The  parting  foliage  backward  swings, 
Light,  as  if  fanned  by  fairy  wings  ; 
And  as  the  trembling  leaves  divide, 
In  the  white  robes  of  virgin  pride, 
The  minstrel  maiden  meets  his  glance, 
Weaving  her  country's  graceful  dance, 
While,  sweeter  as  she  onward  floats, 
She  wakes  the  timbrel's  lofty  notes. 

Wild  blossoms,  that  her  bright  locks  wreathe, 
O'er  her  pure  brow  their  odors  breathe ; 
(66) 


THE   MAIDEN   OF  JUDEA.  (J7 

Yet  even  their  fairest  tints  disclose 
No  blush  to  match  her  cheek's  soft  rose. 
The  deepest  blue  of  starry  skies 
Seems  deepened  in  her  kindling  eyes, 
Whose  heavenward  radiance  now  reveals 
All  that  a  chieftain's  daughter  feels, 
Who  in  her  warlike  sire  can  trace 
The  avenger  of  an  injured  race. 

But  when  her  arms  of  love  she  flings 
Around  his  neck,  and  fondly  clings 
To  his  mailed  bosom,  why  with  wild 
And  frenzied  start,  thrust  back  his  child  ? 
With  one  loud  cry  of  piercing  woe, 
Turn  from  the  light  of  that  sweet  brow, 
And  writhe,  as  if  the  deadly  fold 
Of  poisonous  serpent  round  him  rolled  ? 
The  memory  of  his  fatal  vow 
Flashes  like  blasting  lightning  now ; 
That  vow,  breathed  forth  on  battle-field, 
By  victory's  bloody  signet  sealed. 

As  bends  the  lily,  when  the  wrath 
Of  northern  winds  sweeps  o'er  its  path  ; 
Just  as  its  fair,  unfolding  bloom, 
The  sun's  parental  beams  illume ; 
So  torn  from  nature's  dearest  stay, 
Pale,  trembling,  at  his  feet  she  lay ; 
While  loose,  on  her  reclining  head, 
Her  unshorn  ringlets  o'er  them  spread. 

Jephthah  beheld  the  only  flower 

Left  to  adorn  his  widowed  bower, 

Whose  virgin  beauty  grew  so  fair, 

It  seemed  some  fostering  angel's  cart 

Had  to  this  cherished  blossom  given 

The  purity  and  bloom  of  Heaven ; 

Drooping,  as  if  a  sudden  blast 

O'er  her  young  charms  a  blight  had  oast, 

And  the  dry  agony  of  grief 

Through  gushing  fountains  sought  relief. 

"  Oh  thus,"  the  melted  warrior  cried, 
"  Pure  from  the  stains  of  earthly  pride, 

Pure  from  all  sin,  the  offering  be 

Our  hearts  devote,  0  Lord  1  to  thee, 

My  child ;"  and  bending  down  he  prest 

The  pallid  maiden  to  his  breast. 


68  THE  MAIDEN  OP  JUDEA. 

*  My  blameless  child,  a  fearful  doom 
Hangs  trembling  o'er  thy  life's  young  bloom  ; 
Though  thousand  lives  I  would  resign, 
Even  for  one  hour,  to  ransom  thine ; 
Through  me  my  spotless  lamb  must  bleed, 
The  altar's  holy  flame  to  feed. 
Oh  !  when  to  Israel's  God  I  vowed, 
While  round  me  rolled  war's  fiery  cloud, 
If  the  Great  Spirit  of  His  might 
Led  me  victorious  through  the  fight, 
What  first  my  glad  return  would  hail, 
To  native  Mizpan's  rescued  vale, 
A  votive  sacrifice  should  raise 
The  incense  of  my  country's  praise. 
I  little  thought  that  thoti,  the  dear, 
The  only  treasure  left  me  here, 

In  whom  I've  garnered  all  my  joys " 

O'ermastering  nature  checked  his  voice, 
And  all  the  human  heart  can  bear 
Of  deep,  unutterable  despair, 
Spoke,  in  the  darkening  glance  he  bent, 
Upon  the  gorgeous  firmament, 
As  if  its  broad,  refulgent  glow, 
Shone  but  in  mockery  of  his  woe. 

And  she,  the  gentle  and  the  young, 
If  iron  nerves  were  thus  unstrung, 
Did  not  her  reeling  reason  fly, 
Her  fluttering  life-pulse  faint  and  die 
No  !  while  sustained  in  that  dear  fold 
Of  weeping  love,  her  doom  was  told — 
A  light,  like  morning's  breaking  ray, 
Began  o'er  her  wan  cheek  to  play — 
With  triumph  kindling  in  her  look, 
Backward  the  vailing  locks  she  shook, 
Whose  waves  of  amber  seemed  to  throw 
A  glory  round  her  lifted  brow  ; 
And  with  a  calm  and  heavenly  smile, 
As  if  the  altar's  sacred  pile 
Already  for  the  victim  blazed, 
Her  unpolluted  hands  she  raised  : 
Where  sleeps  my  father's  manly  pride  ?" 
The  death-devoted  maiden  cried. 
Oh  1  let  not  tears  so  weak  and  vain 
The  warrior's  noble  cheek  distain  ; 
Think,  what  a  glorious  fate,  to  be 
A  covenant  'twixt  my  God  and  thee  ; 


THE   MAIDEN   OP  JUDEA.  §9 

Deemed  worthy  in  His  holy  eye, 

An  offering,  on  His  shrine  to  lie, 

While  virgin  innocence  and  truth 

Adorn  the  blossoms  of  my  youth ! 

The  whitest  lamb  of  Gilead's  flock 

Is  driven  from  the  mountain  rock ; 

The  fairest  flowers  of  Gilead  deck 

The  fleecy  victim's  snow-white  neck, 

When  grateful  hearts  to  Heaven  would  bear 

The  incense  of  devotion's  prayer. 

Then  weep  not,  father ;  to  thy  vow 

A  willing  sacrifice  I  bow  ; 

I  came,  with  joy's  bright  garlands  crowned, 

To  minstrelsy's  exulting  sound. 

As  Israel's  daughters  wont  to  grace 

The  triumphs  of  their  chosen  race  : 

Away,  this  worthless  wreath  I  tear, 

The  martyr's  deathless  palm  to  wear ; 

Hushed  be  the  timbrel's  echoing  swell, 

I  go,  in  music's  courts  to  dwell." 

Breathless,  she  paused — a  softer  mood 

Her  eyes'  unearthly  fire  subdued — 

And  toward  her  native  mountains  turning, 

Where  the  last  flames  of  day  were  burning, 

The  chords  of  earthly  feeling  woke 

Their  last  vibration  as  she  spoke : 

Yet  oh  !"  she  added,  "  ere  my  sire 

Shall  lead  me  to  the  kindling  pyre, 

Let  me  on  those  green  hills  once  more 

The  scenes  of  early  joy  explore  ; 

There,  with  the  virgin  train,  who  lead 

Their  flocks  on  tenderest  herbs  to  feed ; 

While  near  the  shades  and  gushing  springs, 

They  tune  their  wild  harp's  sounding  strings, 

My  soul,  with  penitence  and  prayer, 

Shall  for  the  solemn  rite  prepare. 

And  when  another  spring  renews 

Its  flowery  sweets  and  genial  dews, 

The  daughters  of  my  tribe  shall  come 

With  wreaths  symbolic  of  my  bloom, 

And  mourn  me,  as  a  tender  hart, 

Pierced  by  the  forest  hunter's  dart. 

Oh  !  think  not  earth's  fond  memories  cling, 

To  chain  my  spirit's  mounting  wing  ; 

But  when  in  Zion's  fairer  land, 

I  join  the  seraphs'  white-robed  band. 


THE   MAIDEN  OP   JUDEA. 

'Tis  sweet  to  think,  where  once  I  smiled, 
They'll  still  remember  Jephthah's  child  ; 
And  as  yon  twilight's  golden  ray 
Reflects  the  vanished  beams  of  day, 
My  memory  will  a  light  impart, 
To  cheer  a  father's  lonely  heart." 

Thus  meek  and  pure,  the  lamb  was  led  to  slaughter, 
Thus  perished,  in  her  bloom,  Judea's  daughter. 


THE  PEA-GREEN  TAFFETA. 


ESTELLE,  a  little  older  than  when  she  last  appeared  be- 
fore the  reader  at  the  wedding-feast  of  her  sisters,  was 
seated  at  the  side  of  her  ancient  aunt.  It  was  a  dark, 
rainy  night,  and  the  child,  as  she  looked  from  the  hearth 
to  the  windows,  against  which  the  sere  leaves  drifted, 
thought  of  her  far  away  sisters,  Emma  and  Bessy,  and  was 
sad.  She  was  getting  to  be  a  little  more  womanly  in  her 
tastes — more  literary — was  especially  fond  of  romantic 
tales  of  love  and  chivalry,  and,  consequently,  did  not  draw 
quite  so  largely  from  Aunt  Patty's  Scrap  Bag  as  she 
formerly  did.  Yet  there  were  moments,  such  as  the  pre- 
sent, when  that  venerable  receptacle  seemed  to  her,  as  ia 
the  morning  of  childhood,  the  bidding-place  of  the  genii. 

"Aunt  Patty,"  said  she,  opening  the  closet,  mounting 
a  high  chair,  taking  down  the  memorable  bag,  and  de- 
positing it  in  Aunt  Patty's  lap,  "  tell  me  the  history  of 
some  of  your  scraps,  to-night.  There  is  a  plenty  left  here, 
though  I  made  that  large  patch-work  counterpane,  so 
carefully  put  aside.  Aunt  Patty,  I  do  believe  your  scraps 
are  like  the  Widow's  cruise.  You  may  take  ever  so  many 
out,  yet  there  are  ever  so  many  left." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  replied  Aunt  Patty,  trying  to  draw  up  the 
contracted  sinews  of  her  neck,  but  suffering  it  to  fall  pain- 
fully again  toward  the  left  side,  "when  so  many  nice, 
friendly  fingers  are  filling  it  up  all  the  time,  it  isn't  strange 
that  the  bag,  like  the  cruise,  keeps  full.  Let  me  see. 
These  are  most  all  new  scraps.  Somehow  or  other,  I 
can't  remember  about  these,  as  I  can  the  pieces  given  me 
long  ago.  The  people,  now-a-days,  it  seems  to  me,  don't 
do  as  many  smart  things,  nor  say  as  many  smart  sayings, 
as  they  did  in  Parson  Broomfield's  day.  They  are  more 
alike,  as  it  were,  and  what  you  hear  of  one  will  do  about 

(71) 


72  THE   PEA-GREEN  TAFFETA. 

as  well  for  another.  There  is  nothing  to  remember,  and 
I  know  I've  got  as  good  a  memory  as  any  body  of  my 
age  ever  did  have.  I  don't  believe  there  is  one  single 
thing  that  happened  when  I  was  a  girl,  and  that  I  then 
knew  of,  that  ever  escaped  me." 

"I  remember  every  thing  that  Frank  says  and  does, 
Aunt  Patty.  I  wonder  to  hear  you  say  that  the  people 
were  smarter  when  you  were  young  than  they  are  now. 
Mr.  Selwyn  said  the  world  was  growing  better  and  wiser 
every  day.  I'm  sure  I  grow  wiser  every  day  myself." 

It  was  amusing  to  see  the  air  of  precocious  wisdom  that 
dignified  Estelle's  blooming  face.  Aunt  Patty  smiled 
benignantly,  fully  believing  all  that  she  asserted  of  herself, 
though  somewhat  doubting  the  truth  of  Mr.  Selwyn's 
remark,  and  leaning  forward  on  her  crutch,  put  her 
trembling  right  hand  into  the  bag. 

"  How  in  the  world,"  she  exclaimed,  drawing  a  piece 
of  pea-green  colored  taffeta  from  the  rainbow  shreds  on 
the  top,  "  how  in  the  world  did  that  get  here,  mixed  up 
with  the  new  scraps  ?  This  belongs  to  old-time  history. 
Well,  well ;  this  does  carry  me  back,  sure  enough,  a  long 
way,  full  fifty  years,  if  not  more,  when  I  saw  Patience 
Hilliard  dressed  out  in  that  fine  smooth  taffeta,  looking  so 
fine  and  pretty,  just  as  if  she  stepped  out  of  a  new  band- 
box. Poor  Patience !  I  wonder  if  she  is  alive  now." 

"  What  makes  you  call  her  poor,  aunt  Patty  ?  I  should 
think  anybody  who  wore  such  a  fine  rich  silk  as  this, 
ought  to  be  rich." 

"  There's  such  a  thing  as  shining  in  borrowed  plumes, 
child,  as  you  shall  hear  presently.  And  that  reminds  me 
of  a  bad  habit  little  girls  have  now-a-days.  Borrowing 
each  other's  finery  and  tricking  themselves  out  in  each 
other's  rings  and  gew-gaws,  like  the  Jackdaw  in  ^sop's 
Fables.  Don't  do  any  such  thing,  darling.  It  will  be 
sure  to  bring  you  into  trouble.  Now,  Patience  Hilliard 
was  a  poor  girl,  and  used  to  dress,  at  home,  in  homespun, 
and  nothing  finer  than  calico  abroad.  Her  mother  got 
her  living  by  spinning  and  weaving,  and  making  butter 
and  cheese,  and  such  like.  Patience  was  right  industrious 
and  helped  her  mother  as  much  as  she  could,  so  that  she 
got  her  name  up  for  being  the  smartest  girl  for  work  any- 
where about.  She  was  as  pretty  a  girl,  too,  as  one  wants 


THE  PEA-GREEN  TAFFETA.  73 

to  look  upon,  and  always  as  neat  as  a  new-bound  hymn  book. 
It  was  a  pity  she  got  it  into  her  head  to  be  proud  of  her  good 
looks  and  ashamed  of  her  nice,  homely  dress.  But  that 
wasn't  so  much  her  fault,  as  the  silly  folks  that  were  always 
flattering  and  fooliug  her.  She  used  to  carry  the  butter 
to  the  stores,  all  stamped  up  with  flowers  and  devices, 
and  I  remember  it  was  the  nicest  butter  I  ever  saw  in  my 
life.  Mrs.  Hilliard  had  a  nice,  green  clover  patch  behind 
the  house,  and  her  cows  didn't  starve,  I  assure  you.  All 
her  butter  was  as  yellow  as  gold,  and  it  turned  into  gold, 
too.  The  young  men  who  stood  behind  the  counters, 
used  to  praise  Patience's  red  cheeks  and  bright  eyes  more 
than  they  did  the  butter,  so  I've  heard  say,  till  she  set 
such  store  by  her  beauty  that  she  took  mincing  steps  and 
talked  as  if  cotton  was  in  her  mouth.  In  those  days  we 
used  to  have  quilting  frolics,  and  many  times  they  were 
worth  a  dozen  such  stiff,  formal  parties  as  they  have 
now." 

"  Why  didn't  we  have  a  quilting  frolic,  Aunt  Patty, 
when  the  scrap  counterpane  was  quilted  ?  It  would  have 
been  such  a  nice  opportunity." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,  child.  I  suppose  it  is  because  I 
am  too  old  to  think  of  such  things,  and  Mrs.  Worth,  my 
niece  Emma,  that  was,  don't  care  about  that  kind  of  party 
gathering.  When  she  was  a  young  girl,  she  never  did. 
She  never  liked  forfeits." 

"  Do  grown  folks  ever  play  forfeits,  Aunt  Patty  ?" 
asked  Estelle,  opening  her  blue  eyes  in  astonishment.  "  I 
thought  it  was  children's  play." 

"  There's  many  a  grown-up  child,  darling,  and  life  is 
pretty  much  made  up  of  children's  play.  Well,  I  was 
talking  about  qniltings.  If  they  are  old-fashioned  now, 
they  were  all  the  rage  then.  The  young  men — they  used 
to  call  them  sparks — always  came  after  the  quilting  was 
over,  and  the  fiddler  came,  too,  and  they  wound  up  with 
a  dance.  Now,  one  of  our  neighbors  had  a  mighty  great 
quilting,  and  invited  ever  so  many  young  people  to  it. 
Though  I  was  always  so  lame  and  awkward,  and  couldn't 
dance,  I  could  use  my  needle  curiously,  and  they  were 
always^glad  to  get  me  at  the  quilting  frame.  I  was  never 
thinking  about  the  sparks  like  the  other  girls,  and  kept 
steadier  to  my  work." 


74  THE   PEA-GREEN  TAFFETA. 

"Why,  Annt  Patty  I  What's  the  reason  you  never 
thought  of  them  ?" 

"  Because  there  is  not  one  in  a  hundred  worth  thinking 
about,  and  they  are  all  after  beauty  and  finery,  and  havn't 
a  word  to  fling  away  to  a  poor  cripple  like  me."  Now, 
Patience  never  wanted  for  admirers,  though  she  would 
have  been  better  off  without  them,  for  had  it  not  been  for 
them  she  never  would  have  thought  of  doing  the  mean 
trick  I  am  going  to  tell  you  about.  Just  before  the  great 
quilting,  Patience  went  to  take  care  of  a  lady  who  was 
sick — a  very  rich  and  beautiful  lady — who  wore  the  pret- 
tiest clothes  of  any  one  in  town.  She  never  went  to  any 
of  the  gatherings,  for  she  lived,  as  it  were,  above  them  ; 
and  yet  she  was  so  good  and  kind  to  the  poor,  nobody 
called  her  proud.  Patience  couldn't  come  to  the  quilting ; 
but  when  the  dance  began,  she  came  rustling  into  the 
room  in  a  beautiful,  shining  pea-green  taffeta,  just  like 
this.  I  could  hardly  believe  my  own  eyes,  for  I'd  never 
seen  her  dressed  in  any  thing  finer  than  calico  before.  She 
had  artificial  flowers  in  her  hair  and  gold  ear-rings  in  her 
ear,  all  set  with  pearls.  She  swam  about,  for  all  the 
world  like  a  peacock  with  its  tail  flashing  in  the  sun,  and, 
really,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  astonishment  one  felt,  one 
couldn't  help  thinking  she  was  wonderful  pretty.  There 
happened,  (I  can't  conceive  how,  but  he  was  sure  enough 
there,)  there  happened  to  be  a  young  Frenchman  there, 
who  danced  as  light  as  a  butterfly,  and  had  teeth  as  white 
as  polished  ivory.  He  took  a  wondrous  fancy  to  Patience, 
whom  he  probably  thought  the  finest  lady  in  the  room. 
Everybody  was  whispering  about  Patience  and  wondering 
where  her  fine  dress  came  from. 

"It  isn't  hers,"  said  one,  "anymore  than  it's  mine.  If 
it  is,  she  stole  the  money  to  buy  it,  for  butter  and  cheese 
never  manufactured  that." 

"  I  don't  believe  no  such  thing,"  says  I,  thinking  it 
right  to  take  her  part,  because  they  were  all  talking  behind 
her  back,  which  was  mean  and  unchristian-like.  "  Patience 
always  was  an  honest  girl  and  her  mother  brought  her  up 
well.  It  must  be  a  present  to  her.  I  dare  say  Mrs. 
Shaler  gave  it  to  her.  That  was  the  name  of  the  si^  lady ; 
and  I  really  did  believe  it,  though  I  didn't  think  of  it  be- 
fore I  said  it.  Patience  was  a  belle  that  night  if  there 


i 


THE  PEA-GREEN  TAFFETA.  75 

ever  was  one.  Her  cheeks  were  as  red  as  damask  roses, 
and  her  eyes  sparkled  like  live  diamonds.  Yet  she  looked 
uneasy-like,  as  if  she  didn't  want  us  to  follow  her  too  close, 
or  watch  her  too  hard.  I  tell  you  what,  Estelle,  it  must 
be  an  awful  feeling  when  anybody  does  any  thing  they 
don't  want  found  out ;  but,  remember,  the  Lord  finds  out 
everything  we  do,  just  as  easy  as  if  it  were  done  in  broad 
sunshine,  no  matter  how  secret  and  dark  we  may  be. 
Toward  the  close  of  the  evening,  when  Patience  was 
dancing  more  like  a  spirit  than  a  human  being,  her  dress 
caught  a  nail  and  tore  a  great  ugly  place  right  in  the  front 
breadth.  I  thought  she  would  have  gone  raving  distracted 
about  it.  Everybody  got  round  her  to  see  what  was  the 
matter." 

"  This  is  a  bad  accident,"  said  the  young  Frenchman, 
•who  was  dancing  with  her. 

"No,  sir,"  she  cried,  sobbing  like  a  baby,  "it  is  a  pea- 
green  taffeta." 

Every  body  laughed,  and  that  only  made  her  cry  the 
more.  I  couldn't  help  feeling  sorry  for  her ;  so  I  told  her 
if  she  would  come  into  another  room  with  me  I  would  try 
to  mend  it  for  her  as  well  as  I  could.  I  was  always  con- 
sidered a  good  hand  at  darning,  though  one  wouldn't 
think  so,  to  see  my  poor  fingers.  I  made  her  take  off  the 
dress,  and  set  to  work  in  right  good  earnest,  and  it  really 
looked  so  nice  one  hardly  could  tell  where  the  rent  was. 
But  one  of  the  girls  that  belonged  to  the  house,  and  I  do 
believe  she  did  it  out  of  envy  and  spite,  insisted  upon 
pressing  it  with  a  warm  iron,  to  flatten  the  stitches,  and 
she  scorched  it  as  brown  as  my  snuff.  There  was  a  piece 
as  large  as  the  palm  of  my  two  hands  scorched  right  out. 

"Ohl  mercy,"  cried  Patience,  turning  as  white  as  a 
snow-flake,  and  wringing  her  hands,  "  what  shall  I  do  ? 
I'm  ruined  and  undone — I  wish  I  was  dead — I  wish  I'd 
never  been  born." 

"I'd  be  ashamed  to  take  on  so,  about  a  fine  dress," 
cried  the  girl,  who  had  spoiled  it;  "it's  right  down  wicked, 
I  declare  it  is." 

"You  did  wrong  to  burn  it,"  saw  I,  looking  her  right 
in  the  eyj^  all  the  time — "you  kno'w  you  did — you  never 
tried  the  iron  on  a  piece  of  cloth  first,  to  see  if  it  was  hot 


> 


• 

7(5  THE   PEA-GREEN  TAFFETA. 

You  wouldn't  have  served  your  own  dress  so,  you  know 
you  wouldn't." 

She  got  mad  at  that,  and  went  out  slamming  the  door 
after  her.  Then  Patience  and  I  were  alone,  and  though 
I  thought  she  was  wrong,  I  tried  to  comfort  her  ! 

"  Oh  !  Patty,"  said  she,  "  I'll  tell  you— I  couldn't  tell 
any  body  else  in  the  whole  world.  If  it  was  mine,  I 
wouldn't  mind  it  so — but  it  is  Mrs.  Shaler's.  I  took  it 
out  of  her  bureau  drawer,  thinking  it  would' do  no  harm, 
and  that  she  never  would  know  any  thing  about  it.  I 
meant  to  put  it  back,  and  all  the  other  things  too — oh, 
dear  !  What  shall  I  do  ?  What  will  become  of  me  ?" 

"Tell  the  truth,  Patience,"  says  I,  feeling  wonderful 
bold  to  speak,  for  I  knew  I  had  right  on  my  side.  "  She 
won't  be  half  as  angry,  as  she  will  to"' find  it  out  in  any 
other  way,  for  find  it  out,  she  must.  Besides,  it  is  your 
duty,  and  as  you've  done  the  sin,  you  ought  to  bear  the 
shame." 

"I  can't,"  she  cried.  "I  havn't  got  courage  enough; 
you  might  do  it,  but  I  can't.  If  we  cut  a  piece  off  the 
breadth,  perhaps  she  never  would  know  it.  Please  help 
me,  Patty,  and  see  if  it  would  do." 

I  shook  my  head  and  told  her  I  wouldn't  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  it,  if  she  went  on  deceiving,  but  if  she 
was  willing  to  tell  the  righteous  truth,  I  would  go  to  Mrs. 
Shaler's  the  next  day,  and  stand  by  her  while  she  did  it. 

Patience  never  went  back  into  the  dancing  room  that 
night,  but  when  the  quilting  broke  up,  she  peeped  out  of 
the  window  and  saw  the  young  Frenchman,  that  was  so 
taken  with  her,  waiting  on  a  girl  with  a  calico  frock  on, 
one  whom  she  despised  too.  The  way  she  cried  then,  I 
couldn't  begin  to  tell,  for  he  had  asked  if  he  might  wait 
on  her,  most  as  soon  as  she  came  into  the  room.  I  don't 
believe  she  slept  one  wink  that  night,  for  when  the  con- 
science is  unquiet  the  eye-lids  won't  stay  down. 

"  How  can  you  tell,  Aunt  Patty,"  asked  Estelle,  look- 
ing up  fondly  to  that  good,  but  homely  face,  "  when  you 
never  did  any  thing  wrong,  in  your  life  ?" 

"  That  wont  do  to  say,"  replied  Aunt  Patty,  meekly, 
laying  her  hand  gently  on  Estelle's  ringleted  head,  while 
a  warm  and  genial  ray  of  satisfaction  penetrated  her 
heart,  at  this  expression  of  perfect  confidence  in  her  excel 


THE  PEA-GREEN  TAFFETA.  77 

lence — "I'm  nothing  but  a  poor,  erring  creature  at  the 
best,  but  I  do  try  to  walk  in  the  right  way. — Thank  the 
Lord  !  the  lame  can  find  room  in  the  straight  and  narrow 
path,  as  well  as  the  whole  and  strong.  If  it  were  not  for 
this  crutch,  I  might  be  further  from  the  kingdom  of  Hea- 
ven than  I  now  am." 

"  Did  you  really  go  to  Mrs.  Shaler's,  Aunt  Patty  ?" 
asked  Estelle,  after  a  pause,  in  which  Aunt  Patty  seemed 
lost  in  devout  meditation. 

"  Yes,  child,  I  did  go ;  and  I  wouldn't  have  missed  it 
for  all  the  pea-green  taffetas  this  room  could  hold." 

"Please  tell  her,"  said  Patience,  "I  can't  do  it.  I 
should  die  before  I  got  through." 

I  nev«r  pitied  any  body  worse  in  my  life,  than  I  did 
Patience.  Her  eyes  were  all  swelled  up,  and  there  was  a 
red  rim  round  them,  and  her  cheeks  were  all  of  a  bluish 
white.  I  walked  softly  into  the  room,  making  as  little 
noise  as  I  could  with  my  crutch,  on  the  fine,  soft  carpet. 
I  had  never  seen  Mrs.  Sbaler  since  she  was  sick,  and  I 
hardly  knew  her,  her  face  looked  so  thin  and  white,  and 
then  she  looked  so  sad  and  wistful  out  of  her  eyes,  a  kind 
of  farewell  look,  as  if  she  felt  she  was  going  to  die.  She 
held  out  her  hand,  and  I  was  most  afraid  to  touch  it,  so 
little  and  weak  it  appeared,  at  the  side  of  mine. 

"Mrs.  Shaler,"  says  I,  "I  don't  want  to  worry  you, 
and  I  hope  you  won't  be  angry — but  Patience" — here 
Patience  burst  out  a  sobbing,  and  I  choked  so,  I  couldn't 
speak  one  word.  But  presently  I  got  ray  courage  up, 
and  told  her  the  whole  story,  from  beginning  to  end, 
without  any  palavering,  and  begged  her  to  pardon  Pa- 
tience, as  she  expected  the  Lord  Almighty  would  pardon 
her  at  the  judgment  day.  I  never  shall  forget  her  look, 
never,  when  I  had  finished.  Do  you  think  she  was 
angry  ?" 

"  Oh,  no  I"  answered  Estelle,  "but  sorry,  very  sorry. 
"Was  she  not  ?" 

"  Yes !  her  beautiful  sad-looking  eyes  filled  with  tears, 
as  they  fixed  themselves  on  Patience,  who  stood  by  the 
side  of  the  bed,  with  her  apron  all  over  her  face.  Clasp- 
ing her  thin  white  hands  together  and  lifting  them  up- 
ward. 

"  Oh  I"  she  cried,  in  a  voice  scarcely  above  a  whisper, 


78  THE  PEA-GREEN  TAFFETA. 

"  of  how  little  value  is  a  silk  dress  to  me,  lying  as  I  am, 
on  a  dying  bed.  A  white  muslin  shroud  for  my  body  and 
a  wedding  garment  for  my  soul,  is  all  I  now  ask  of  man 
or  God." 

It  was  the  solemnest  scene  I  ever  beheld.  It  seemed  as 
if  an  angel  was  speaking.  She  didn't  look  as  if  she 
belonged  to  this  world  ;  and  I  hardly  felt  that  I  was  in  it 
myself.  There  was  something,  I  can't  tell  what,  that  made 
Patience  take  the  apron  from  her  face  and  look  right  at 
her. 

"  Yes,  look  at  me,"  said  the  sick  lady,  in  snch  a  gentle, 
mournful  tone,  the  tears  streamed  from  my  eyes  to  hear 
her — "  look  at  me,  poor,  deluded  girl.  What  are  beauty, 
dress,  or  admiration  to  me  ?  Shadows,  shadows,  all  van- 
ished away  1  There  is  but  one  reality,  and  that  is  eternity. 
Kemember  this  when  I  am  gone — and  set  not  your  heart 
on  the  passing  vanities  of  earth." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Shaler" — interrupted  Patience,  in  a  burst  of 
penitence  and  grief,  "  if  you'll  only  forgive  me  this  time, 
I'll  never  do  so  no  more. " 

"  I  forgive  you  freely,"  said  the  sick  lady — "  and  may 
God  open  your  eyes,  to  see  the  power  of  truth  and  the 
beauty  of  holiness." 

"  Estelle,  I  never  forgot  that  morning — I  never  shall ; 
old  as  I  am  now,  and  though  that  frail,  beautiful  form  is 
all  dust  and  ashes,  mingling  with  common  dust — it  comes 
back  to  me  all  alive  as  it  were,  as  if  but  a  day  had  passed 
since  then.  As  I  was  leaving  the  room,  she  called  me 
back  to  the  bedside  and  said — 

"You  are  a  good  girl,  Patty — I've  heard  Parson 
Broomfield  speak  of  you,  Patty ;  I'm  going  to  the  land 
where  the  lame  shall  need  no  crutch,  for  the  Lord  God 
shall  be  their  strength  and  their  stay." 

Aunt  Patty  paused,  and  taking  her  handkerchief  from 
her  pocket  held  it  to  her  eyes.  The  memories  of  her  youth 
rushed  in  such  a  full  stream  through  the  channel  of  age, 
that  the  waters  overflowed.  Estelle,  over  whose  sweet, 
young  face,  a  soft,  solemn  shadow  had  been  gradually 
stealing,  laid  her  head  on  Aunt  Patty's  lap  and  wept  from 
sympathy. 

"  Did  she  die,  Aunt  Patty  ?" 

"  Yes,  not  many  weeks  after,  she  was  laid  in  her  grave, 


THE  PEA-GKEEN  TAPFETA.  79 

but  I  believe  if  ever  a  soul  went  to  glory,  hers  did.  It 
was  the  longest  funeral  I  ever  saw.  Every  body  followed 
her ;  the  poor  as  well  as  the  rich,  and  I  don't  believe  there 
was  a  dry  eye,  when  Parson  Broomfield  preached  her 
funeral  sermon.  Oh  !  he  was  a  glorious  man,  Parson 
Broomfield  was.  I've  heard  good  preaching  since,  but 
never  any  body  that  preached  like  him.  It  seemed,  when 
you  were  listening  to  him,  as  if  somebody  was  pouring  oil 
all  over  the  soul — and  he  too,  is  singing  the  song  of 
Moses  and  the  Lamb  I" 

Again  the  waters  of  memory  overflowed,  for  the  valves 
that  close  over  the  sensibilities  of  age  are  easily  opened. 
That  beloved  and  venerated  name  always  touched  a  master 
chord  and  produced  a  long  vibration. 

"  What  became  of  Patience  ?"  said  Estelle.  "  Did  she 
never  get  married  ?" 

"  I  never  saw  any  thing  like  children,"  said  Aunt  Patty, 
taking  a  large  pinch  of  snuff,  from  the  gold  box  Mr. 
Selwyn  presented  her  on  his  wedding  eve.  "  They  always 
ask  such  silly  questions,  as  if  all  a  woman  was  born  and 
bred  for  was  to  get  married.  Why,  some  of  the  best 
women  that  ever  lived  are  old  maids,  I  just  as  lief  speak  it 
as  not,  and  walk  alone  through  the  world  scattering  bless- 
ings every  step  they  take.  I  do  think  they  are  the  most 
unselfish  beings  in  the  world,  if  they  aint  selfish.  St.  Paul 
says  it  is  better  not  to  marry,  but  to  live  to  glorify  the 
Lord,  and  every  body  knows  he  was  inspired  and  spoke 
with  a  cloven  tongue  of  fire." 

"I don't  mean  to  marry,"  said  Estelle,  emphatically. 
"I  think  you  are  right,  Aunt  Patty,  it  is  better  to  be 
single.  Frank  asked  me  to  wait  for  him,  but  I  wouldn't 
leave  you  and  mother  for  any  body,  though  I  liked  them 
ever  so  well.  But  you  did  not  tell  me  about  Patience." 

41  Patience,  "said  her  historian,  "was  an  altered  girl,  from 
the  morning  I  told  Mrs.  Shaler  about  the  taffeta.  She 
gave  up  all  her  airs  and  finery,  and  though  the  girls 
in  the  village  taunted  her  and  called  her  by  the  nick 
name  of  "  Pea-Green  Taffeta,"  she  never  talked  back  to 
them,  but  looked  meek  and  sorry,  remembering  what  Mrs. 
Shaler  had  said  to  her.  You  can't  think  how  much  pret- 
tier she  grew,  for  the  spirit  that  is  in  one  makes  a  wonder- 
ful difference  in  the  looks.  She  did  not  care  about  going 


80  THE  PEA-GREEN  TAFFETA. 

to  any  more  dances,  but  the  young  men  waited  on  her  to 
the  singing  school  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  She  used 
to  meet  the  young  Frenchman  there,  for  he  staid  about  the 
village,  and  after  awhile  she  walked  home  with  nobody 
else  but  him.  The  people  began  to  talk  and  whisper,  and 
said  he  was  making  a  fool  of  her,  but  one  Sunday  morning 
they  were  published,  and  in  a  month  more  they  were  mar- 
ried, and  I  was  at  the  wedding.  Patience  hadn't  on  one 
bit  of  finery,  not  even  so  much  as  a  real  flower,  nothing 
but  a  plain,  white  dress,  not  so  much  as  a  lace  tucker  on 
it.  Folks  said  she'd  repent  of  her  bargain,  for  he  couldn't 
be  much,  to  marry  a  poor  girl  like  her.  But  he  was  a 
nice  young  man  and  made  her  a  good  husband,  as  far  as  I 
know ;  he  set  up  a  sort  of  fancy  shop  and  every  one  liked 
to  buy  of  him,  he  bowed  so  much  and  had  such  a  pleasant 
way  of  smiling  and  showing  his  white  teeth." 

"  Patty,"  she  used  to  say  sometimes — "  if  it  had  not 
been  for  you — oh  1  Patty,  you've  been  a  good  friend  to 
me." 

"  I  left  the  place  when  your  mother  married,  and  have 
never  seen  her  since." 

"  How  did  you  get  this  scrap  of  silk,  Aunt  Patty  ?" 

"  I  just  cut  a  little  piece  from  the  top  of  the  skirt,  where 
it  was  turned  under,  that  time  I  mended  it  for  Patience — 
I  didn't  call  that  any  robbery." 

"  Oh  no  !"  cried  the  child ;  "  but  here  is  a  pretty  piece 
of  purple  satin.  Whose  was  that  ?" 

"  Never  mind  now  ;  it  is  getting  sleepy  time— one  of 
these  days,  perhaps,  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it." 


THE  PURPLE  SATIN  DRESS. 


"  Now,  tell  me,  Aunt  Patty,  about  the  piece  of  purple 
satin,"  said  Estelle,  while  she  plied  her  busy  needle,  in 
manufacturing  a  cap  for  her  aged  relative.  "You  prom- 
ised me,  you  know,  when  you  related  the  history  of  the  pea- 
green  silk  taffeta.  It  seems  to  me  there  must  be  some- 
thing very  interesting  connected  with  this  It  has  such 
a  rich,  beautiful  color,  and  is  so  thick  and  glossy." 

"  Let  me  look  at  it,  child,"  said  Aunt  Patty,  putting  on 
her  spectacles  and  stretching  out  her  hand,  in  which  Estelle 
laid  the  shining  morceau.  "  I  can  always  remember  any 
thing  better,  when  I  look  at  it.  Yes,  this  is  fine,  and  it 
belonged  to  a  fine  lady — and  she  lived  in  a  grand  house, 
the  grandest  in  the  whole  town.  When  I  was  a  young 
girl,  I  used  to  stay  week  after  week,  in  that  house  ;  and  the 
merry  times  they  had  there,  I  could  not  begin  to  tell. " 

"  You,  Aunt  Patty  !  How  came  you  to  be  in  such  a 
grand  house,  and  with  such  fine  folks  ?" 

Why,  you  know  we  always  kept  the  best  of  company, 
and  though  we  had  no  pomp  or  finery  ourselves,  we  had 
more  chances  than  one  to  see  it  in  others.  Mrs.  Delville 
used  to  come  to  our  house  and  take  a  great  deal  of  notice 
of  me,  and  call  me  her  poor  lame  Patty,  so  kindly,  it  warmed 
my  heart  to  hear  her.  I  never  expected  any  one  to  take 
notice  of  me,  and  when  they  did,  I  felt  as  you  do,  when 
the  sun  shines  out  on  a  cloudy  day.  Once  Mrs.  Delville 
Bent  for  me,  to  make  her  a  long  visit,  because,  she  said,  she 
was  lonely  and  wanted  some  pleasant  company,  as  if  I 
could  entertain  such  a  fine  lady  as  she  was. 

Well,  I  hadn't  been  with  her  more  than  a  day  or  two, 

when  there  came  three  young  ladies  from  the  city  to  see 

her,  and  three  prettier  creatures  I  never  set  eyes  on.    Their 

name  was  Morrison.     The  oldest  was  Cornelin,  but  every 

6  (81) 


82  THE  PURPLE   SATIN  DRESS 

body  called  her  Neely — and  the  second  was  Margaret,  and 
the  third  Grace.  One  looked  hardly  older  than  the  other, 
and  it  was  hard  to  tell  which  was  the  handsomest.  They 
all  looked  like  so  many  pictures,  and  I,  who  always  loved 
to  look  on  beautifnl  things,  never  was  tired  with  gazing  at 
them.  I  really  believe,  I've  sat  for  hours  together,  look- 
ing first  at  one  and  then  at  the  other,  watching  their  eyes 
sparkle,  and  thinking  of  the  stars  twinkling  way  up  in  the 
sky.  Grace  had  a  kind  of  innocent,  childish  turn,  that  the 
others  hadn't,  and  she  seemed  to  take  to  me  more  than  the 
rest.  Mrs.  Delville  invited  all  the  young  company  in  the 
neighborhood  to  meet  them,  but  I  always  staid  by  myself, 
in  spite  of  all  they  could  say  and  do.  1  never  complained 
that  the  Lord  didn't  make  me  as  pretty  as  most  people  ; 
and  when  at  home  and  among  friends,  I  never  thought  of 
my  looks.  Provided  they  treated  me  kindly,  I  was  satis- 
fied and  happy.  But  I  never  could  bear  to  go  among 
strangers,  and  have  them  stare  at  me,  and  ask  who  that 
homely,  lame  young  person  was — and  then  to  set  myself 
by  the  side  of  those  beautiful  creatures,  all  dressed  in  mus- 
lin and  laces,  I  never  could  do  it. 

"You  always  tell  me,  Aunt  Patty,"  said  Estelle,  raising 
her  deep  blue  eyes  suddenly  to  Aunt  Patty's  face,  while  a 
smile  played  upon  her  lips — "  that  it  is  no  matter  how  we 
look,  if  we  are  only  good  and  amiable — '  handsome  is, 
.that  handsome  does,'  you  say.  According  to  that,  you 
must  be  beautiful,  Aunt  Patty." 

"  That's  true,  my  darling,  but  young  men  always  will  be 
looking  after  pretty  faces,  though  they  are  often  sorry 
enough  for  it  in  the  end."  There  was  one  young  man  who 
used  to  come  every  evening  to  Mrs.  Delville's,  and  the 
oftener  he  came,  the  gladder  they  always  were  to  see  him. 
He  was  an  officer  in  the  Army,  and  his  name  was  Captain 
Lynmore.  I  never  went  into  the  parlor  at  night,  but  I 
could  see  the  company  walking  about  the  garden 
of  a  moonlight  evening,  all  in  pairs,  and  the  white 
dresses  of  the  ladies  fluttered  about  among  the  green  trees 
and  flowers,  looking  like  so  many  fairies.  Captain  Lyn- 
more was  a  tall,  stately  looking  man  ;  tall  enough  to  make 
my  neck  ache  to  reach  up  to  him,  so  as  to  see  his  face. 
The  ladies  praised  him  to  the  skies,  and  seemed  to  think 
there  was  nobody  in  the  world  like  him.  Mrs.  Delville 


THE  PURPLE   SATIN  DRESS.  83 

said  she  would  like  of  all  things,  to  know  which  was  his 
favorite,  but  for  her  life  she  couldn't  tell.  She  believed 
for  her  part,  that  he  was  in  love  with  them  all.  I  noticed 
that  though  Grace  praised  him  least  of  all,  she  always 
blushed  when  they  talked  about  him,  and  pretended  not  to 
listen.  Sometimes  she  made  believe  to  find  fault  with  him, 
and  said  she  didn't  see  any  thing  in  him  to  take  on  about, 
but  one  could  see  that  this  was  all  put  on. 

They  were  always  getting  up  some  kind  of  frolic  or 
other,  for  Mrs.  Delville  was  a  merry  lady  and  never  was  so 
happy  as  when  she  saw  smiling  faces  around  her.  She  had 
passed  several  years  in  Europe  and  had  brought  home  the 
greatest  quantity  of  finery  you  ever  saw.  She  was  pre- 
sented at  Court,  while  she  was  there,  and  there  were  four 
or  five  dresses  hanging  in  her  wardrobe,  that  she  wore, 
when  she  went  to  the  palace  of  the  king.  There  was  a 
crimson  silk  velvet,  all  trimmed  with  gold  frogs  and  golden 
fringe;  and  a  green  silk  velvet  with  silver  frogs  and  silver 
fringe;  and  a  beautiful  purple  satin,  trimmed  all  round  with 
ermine  as  white  as  the  drifted  snow. 

"  Ah !  I'm  so  glad  you've  come  to  the  purple  satin. 
Please  don't  loose  sight  of  it  again." 

One  night,  continued  Aunt  Patty,  smoothing  the  scrap 
on  her  right  knee,  Mrs.  Delville  took  her  fine  court 
dresses  out  of  the  wardrobe  and  spreading  them  out  on  the 
bed,  told  the  girls  she  was  going  to  get  up  a  kind  of  little 
masquerade,  and  they  must  put  on  her  Royal  robes  for  the 
occasion.  Mr.  Delville  had  a  court  dress  of  black  silk 
velvet  trimmed  with  gold  lace,  that  Captain  Lynmore  was 
to  wear,  and  would  you  believe  it,  Mrs.  Delville  tried  to 
make  me  dress  up  and  pretend  to  be  somebody.  But  I 
told  her,  they  ought  to  have  somebody  to  look  on,  and  I 
promised  to  slide  into  a  corner  of  the  parlor  where, 
in  the  shade  of  the  dark-green  curtains,  I  could  peep  at 
what  was  going  on.  I  wish  I  could  describe  to  you  the 
magnificent  figures  the  three  girls  made  in  their  glittering 
dresses,  with  the  long  trains  sweeping  behind  them.  Grace 
wore  the  purple  satin  with  the  ermine  border,  and  it  fitted 
her  like  a  glove.  Mrs.  Delville  made  her  put  on  some 
pearl  ornaments  of  hers  too,  but  the  prettiest  ornament  of 
the  whole  was  a  white  rose  bud,  she  had  twisted  carelessly 
in  her  shining  dark  hair.  This  was  all  done  for  a  frolic, 


84  THE  PURPLE   SATIN  DRESS. 

you  know,  for  there  was  nobody  invited  but  what  was 
staying  in  the  house  already.  As  I  sat  in  my  corner  I 
could  see  every  thing  that  was  going  on,  and  I  thought  I 
knew  more  than  some  in  the  midst  of  the  game. 

Captain  Lynmore  looked  like  a  prince;  and  though 
there  were  other  gentlemen  in  the  room,  the  young  girls 
had  eyes  for  none  but  him,  he  made  the  rest  seem  so  insig- 
nificant. You  know  some  people  have  naturally  a  royal 
way  with  them,  and  he  was  just  such  a  one.  Nelly,  the 
eldest  sister,  who  wore  the  crimson  velvet  robe,  with  some- 
thing grand  and  shining  on  her  head  in  the  shape  of  a 
half  moon,  walked  as  if  she  was  a  king's  wife  and  he  not 
good  enough  for  her.  She  kept  Captain  Lynmore  close 
to  her  the  greatest  part  of  the  evening,  though  I  oould  not 
help  thinking  that  he  would  have  liked  to  talk  to  some- 
body else.  But  she  had  a  way  of  fastening  people  to  her, 
whether  they  wanted  to  or  not,  so  that  it  was  very  hard  to 
get  away  from  her.  Margaret  did  not  seem  to  care  about 
any  one  in  particular,  but  laughed  and  talked  with  all, 
looking  in  her  beautiful  green  velvet,  like  a  pink  bursting 
into  bloom.  Grace  did  not  look  gay  or  lively  like  the  rest ; 
she  was  pale,  and  sometimes  a  sadness  would  steal  over 
her  that  she  tried  to  shake  off  and  could  not.  Once  in  a 
while,  her  eyes,  (and  they  were  the  softest,  brightest  eyes 
that  ever  shone  in  a  mortal  head,)  would  follow  Captain 
Lynmore  and  her  sister,  as  they  swept  up  and  down  the 
room,  playing  state,  with  such  a  grace,  and  then  she  would 
turn  away  with  a  sigh.  I  heard  somebody  say  to  her 
"  What  a  handsome  couple  your  sister  and  Captain  Lyn- 
more would  make  I  I  don't  wonder  they  are  in  love  with 
each  other."  Grace  drew  a  quick  short  breath  and  came 
and  sat  down  by  me. 

"  Patty,"  says  she,  "  I  envy  you,  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart,  you  dear,  good  creature." 

"  What  in  the  world  can  you  envy  me  for  ?".  says  I, 
thinking,  maybe,  that  she  was  making  fun  of  me. 

"Oh I"  says  she,  laughing  and  blushing  together,  "I 
don't  believe  you  were  ever  in  love,  were  you  ?" 

"  No,  indeed,"  says  I,  quite  scandalized,  "  I  think  it  a 
disgrace  for  a  girl  to  fall  in  love,  without  being  asked.  I 
Would  as  soon  cut  off  my  right  hand." 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her,  Estelle  ;  when  I  said 


THE  PURPLE  SATIN  DRESS.  85 

that,  her  cheeks  turned  the  color  of  scarlet  and  her  eyes 
flashed  np,  like  a  fire  light  on  the  wintry  hearth. 

Says  she,  "  Patty,  I  hope  you  do  not  mean  any  reflection 
on  me,  by  that  remark." 

"  I  don't  mean  nothing  wrong,"  said  I,  "  and  I  never 
thought  you  would  take  it  to  yourself,  I  am  sure.  I  am 
sorry  if  I  hurt  your  feelings." 

She  looked  at  me  right  hard  as  I  spoke  and  her  eyes 
softened  till  they  looked  like  velvet.  Laying  her  beautiful 
white  hand  on  my  arm,  she  said  : 

"  I  don't  believe  you  would  intentionally  wound  the 
feelings  of  any  one.  I  did  not  mean  to  speak  so  quickly. 
Come  in  Mrs.  Delville's  room  with  me,  will  you  ?  I  see 
they  are  preparing  for  a  dance,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  join 
in  it." 

With  that  she  put  her  arm  round  me  and  sort  of  drew 
me  coaxingly  out  of  the  room.  "  There,  Patty,"  says  she, 
"sit  down  in  that  rocking-chair,  and  tell  me  what  you 
think  of  me." 

I  looked  up  in  astonishment  at  those  words,  but  when 
I  saw  her  right  opposite  in  her  splendid  dress,  with  her 
vail  of  white  gossamer  lace  thrown  back  from  her  face, 
looking  so  fair  and  beautiful,  I  could  not  help  saying  : 

"  I  think  you  are  the  prettiest  creature  I  ever  saw  in  my 
life,  but  you  have  no  right  to  be  proud  of  it ;  for  you  and 
I  both  are  as  the  Lord  made  us." 

"  Oh  !  Patty,  you  don't  say  I'm  pretty,"  says  she,  catch- 
ing me  round  the  neck  and  kissing  me,  with  her  own  sweet 
lips;  "if  it  were  not  for  one  person,  I  would  not  care 
how  I  looked."  Then  changing  her  voice  she  added  : 

"  Do  you  think  Captain  Lynmore  loves  sister  Neely  ? 
Do  you  really  think  so  ?" 

"I  don't  know  enough  about  love,"  says  I,  feeling 
ashamed,  though  I  don't  know  why  I  did,  "  to  know  what 
its  signs  are  ;  you  know  better  than  I." 

"  Oh  !"  says  she,  clasping  her  hands  tight  together  and 
lifting  them  up  a  little,  "  if  I  thought  it  were  really  so,  I 
should  be  wicked  enough  to  wish  to  die;  Patty,  pity  me  ;  I 
am  the  most  foolish,  the  most  inconsistent  being  in  the  world, 
and  the  most  unhappy.  Don't  think  strange  of  me,  but  it  is 
such  a  comfort  to  have  some  one,  to  whom  I  can  open  my 
heart,  and  you  look  so  good." 


8(3  THE   PURPLE   SATIN  DRESS. 

Just  at  this  moment,  Mrs.  Pelville  burst  into  the  room, 
tailing  on  Grace  to  come  immediately  and  make  up  the 
Jance,  that  they  could  not  do  without  her. 

"Is  sister  Neely  going  to  dance  ?"  asked  she  quickly. 

"Yes,  she  is  standing  up  with  Captain  Lynmore  of 
Bourse,"  says  Mrs.  Delville,  significantly. 

"  Yes,  yes,  let  us  haste  to  the  dance,"  says  Grace  gayly, 
lolding  up  her  train  and  showing  her  white  satin  skirt 
underneath.  I  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  her,  she 
deemed  so  sad  before,  and  then  brightened  up  so  suddenly, 
but  I  followed  her  in,  and  slid  down  into  my  little  shaded 
corner. 

"  I  can't  tell  you,"  continued  Aunt  Patty,  "  how  bewil- 
dered I  felt,  looking  at  that  company,  dressed  up  so  fine 
and  gay,  knowing  too,  all  the  while,  that  she,  who  seemed 
the  gayest  and  was  the  fairest,  was  sad  at  heart  for  all  her 
smiles.  I  was  then  young,  darling,  and  had  foolish 
thoughts  like  other  girls,  though  I  tried  to  shut  them  out. 
I  sometimes  thought  it  must  be  mighty  pleasant  to  be  at- 
tended to  by  the  young  men,  and  that  young  girls,  who 
were  praised  and  flattered  for  their  beauty,  must  be  hap- 
pier than  such  poor,  crippled,  misshapen  beings  as  myself. 
But  this  night  T  found  out  that  one  might  be  pretty, 
prized  and  sought  after,  and  yet  if  the  right  one  did  not 
come  to  praise  and  seek  after,  one  might  be  perfectly  mis- 
erable, as  it  were.  And  I  prayed  the  Lord,  in  the  silence 
of  my  little  corner,  that  my  thoughts  might  not  be  per- 
mitted to  wander  into  forbidden  regions ;  and  I  blessed 
him,  for  making  me,  even  as  I  was,  secure  from  the  temp- 
tations of  vanity  and  pride." 

The  partner  of  Grace,  was  a  fine  young  man,  just  as 
handsome  as  Captain  Lynmore,  but  I  could  see  plain 
enough,  that  though  she  laughed  and  talked  with  him,  she 
was  not  thinking  of  him,  but  of  the  one  that  was  dancing 
with  her  sister  Neely,  and  yet  for  all  that,  she  made 
believe  that  she  did  not  care  one  cent  for  him,  and  when 
it  was  her  time  to  turn  him  in  the  dance,  she  hardly 
touched  his  hand,  and  looked  right  another  way.  When 
Grace  stood  at  the  head  of  the  dance,  it  was  a  kind  of 
fancy  dance,  that  I  never  saw  before,  (for  at  the  quillings, 
that  I  told  you  about,  they  danced  nothing  but  reels.) 


THE   PURPLE   SATIN  DRESS.  87 

Mrs.  Delville,  thinking  maybe,  I  looked  lonely,  came  and 
took  a  seat  by  me. 

"  Patty,"  says  she,  "I  am  afraid  that  you  will  be  tired 
sitting  here  by  yourself.  You  and  I  are  lookers  on  in 
Venice." 

I  didn't  know  what  she^ineant  by  that,  but  I  knew  it  must 
be  something  pleasant,  and  I  smiled  and  said,  I  was  glad 
that  I  took  pleasure  in  looking  at  beautiful  objects,  and 
that  a  prettier  sight  I  never  had  had  a  chance  of  seeing. 

"Mrs.  Delville,"  says  I,  clearing  my  throat  that  felt 
wondrous  husky,  "do  you  think  Captain  Lynmore  and 
Miss  Neely  are  going  to  get  married  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  says  she,  they  would  make  a  splendid 
looking  couple.  Grace  is  my  favorite,  but  I  don't  think 
she  cares  for  him." 

Just  at  this  moment,  as  I  was  looking  at  Grace,  who 
stood  under  the  blaze  of  the  chandelier,  with  her  back  to 
a  lamp,  burning  on  the  mantel-piece,  it  seemed  that  she 
was  wrapped  in  living  flame.  Her  vail,  which  fluttered 
from  her  head,  was  blown  by  the  wind  into  the  blaze  of 
the  lamp,  and  she  never  knew  it.  Before  I  could  find 
breath  to  scream,  Captain  Lyumore  darted  forward  from 
the  foot  of  the  dance,  and  throwing  his  arms  right  round 
her,  tore  off  the  burning  vail,  and  crushed  the  flames  of 
her  dress,  with  his  hands.  I  never  heard  such  shrieks  as 
filled  the  room,  and  her  sisters  ran  to  and  fro,  wringing 
their  hands,  too  much  frightened  to  do  any  thing.  Grace 
looked  up  in  the  Captain's  face,  and  such  a  smile  I  never 
saw  before.  You  remember,  Estelle,  how  you  made  me 
look  out  of  the  window  the  other  night,  to  see  how  the 
moon  looked,  shining  on  the  water.  Just  so  sweet  was  the 
smile  of  that  pale,  beautiful  face.  "  Why,  what  is  the  mat- 
ter, child  ?  What  makes  you  cry  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Aunt  Patty,  I  am  so  interested ;  was 
she  burned  ?  was  she  scarred  ?  I  am  so  glad  Captain  Lyn- 
more put  out  the  flames." 

"  So  was  I,"  cried  Aunt  Patty,  "  I  really  couldn't  be 
sorry  for  the  accident,  that  made  her  smile  so  sweetly,  but 
the  next  moment,  her  eyes  closed,  her  face  turned  as  white 
as  a  corpse,  and  she  fell  like  a  dead  person  against  his 
breast.  He  looked  about  him,  like  a  distracted  person, 
and  taking  her  up,  as  if  she  we^e  a  ch.ild,  hurried  off  intq 


88  THE   PURPLE   SATIN  DRESS. 

the  next  room  and  laid  her  on  a  sofa.  Then  he  dropped 
down  on  his  knees  before  her,  and  talked  as  if  he  was 
beside  himself.  Mrs.  Delville  could  scarcely  get  him  out 
of  the  room,  so  as  to  unloosen  Grace's  dress,  for  she  knew 
she  had  only  fainted. 

"  No,  no,  no,"  says  she,  pushing  him  away  by  the  shoul- 
der, "  she  is  not  dead ;  let  me  get  to  her.  But  good 
heavens,  Captain  Lynmore,  look  at  your  hands,  they  are 
bleeding  and  raw  ;  oh  dear,  what  shall  I  do  ?  Who  will 
attend  to  Captain  Lynmore's  hands  ?" 

Now,  I  had  seen  my  mother  put  cotton  on  burns, 
because  she  said  it  kept  the  air  out,  and  I  thought  if  I 
wrapped  up  Captain  Lynmore's  hands  in  it,  the  best  way 
I  could,  it  would  be  better  than  letting  them  bleed  and 
suffer,  as  I  knew  they  did.  So  while  Mrs.  Delville  was 
busy  with  Grace,  I  followed  the  Captain,  and  made  bold 
to  offer  my  services.  He  seemed  as  grateful  as  could  be, 
and  as  gentle  as  a  lamb,  for  all  he  must  have  been  in  a 
world  of  pain. 

"Patty,"  says  he,  (it  is  strange  how  every  body  called 
me  Patty,)  "  you  are  very  kind,  but  oh  1  be  kinder  still, 
and  inquire  how  she  is  now.  Tell  me  if  she  has  recovered  ; 
tell  me  if  she  lives ;  I  cannot  bear  this  suspense." 

I  went  and  opened  the  door  where  she  was,  and  the  first 
thing  I  saw  was  her  beautiful  eyes,  looking  right  at  me,  as 
she  lay  on  the  sofa,  with  her  sister  and  Mrs.  Delville  close 
by  her.  The  purple  satin  dress  lay  all  scorched  and 
tattered  on  the  floor,  with  its  white  ermine  trimming 
soiled  and  blackened.  What  a  pity !  spoiled  just  for  a 
frolic. 

Grace  held  out  her  hand,  and  I  went  up  to  her  and 
asked  her  how  she  felt,  and  that  Captain  Lynmore  couldn't 
be  easy  till  he  knew.  She  blushed  up  like  a  summer  rose, 
and  said  she  was  better,  much  better. 

"  Please  tell  him  so,  Patty,"  said  she,  giving  my  hand  a 
soft,  loving  pressure,  "  and  tell  him  too,  I  have  no  words 
to  thank  him,  but  oh  !  I  feel  so  grateful,"  here  she  let  go 
my  hand  and  laid  her  own  on  her  heart,  which  seemed  to 
flutter  like  a  bird. 

Neely  was  standing  close  by  the  sofa,  and  I  happened 
to  be  looking  at  her,  and  I  never  saw  any  body's  counte- 
nance change  so.  It  turned  so  dark  and  all  the  color 


THE  PURPLE   SATIN   DRESS.  g9 

faded  away  on  her  lips  and  cheeks.  All  her  beauty 
appeared  to  vanish,  and  as  she  fixed  her  eyes  steadfastly 
on  Grace,  there  was  something  in  them,  that  I  do  say, 
made  me  tremble  all  over.  All  at  once,  she  said  out, 

"  Sister,  did  you  know  that  your  hair  was  all  burnt  off 
behind  ?" 

Grace  raised  her  hand  to  her  head,  where,  sure  enough, 
her  beautiful  dark  hair  was  all  scorched  and  frizzled. 

"  It  is  indeed  so,  but,"  she  added,  sitting  up  and  leaning 
anxiously  forward  ;  "  surely  Captain  Lynmore  must  be 
Buffering  for  all  this.  How  selfish  I  am  not  to  think  of  it 
sooner.  Mrs.  Delville,  tell  me  if  it  is  not  so." 

"His  hands  are  badly  burned,"  replied  Mrs.  Delville, 
"  but  Patty  has  bandaged  them  nicely  with  cotton,  and  I 
trust  they  will  soon  be  healed.  I  have  sent  for  a  physi- 
cian, however,  fearing  that  you,  too,  might  be  seriously 
injured." 

"  I  am  not  burned,"  said  she,  the  tears  gushing  from 
her  eyes ;  "  but  it  is  so  sad  to  think  I  have  made  others 
suffer.  Your  costly  dress,  too,  is  all  ruined.  How  sorry 
I  am." 

"Never  mind  the  dress,"  says  Mrs.  Delville  kindly,  "I 
do  not  consider  it  of  any  consequence.  It  performed  its 
mission  long  ago." 

She  lifted  it  up  as  she  spoke,  and  a  piece  of  it  fell  off 
just  at  my  feet.  It  looked  like  a  shining  purple  feather 
fluttering  down.  I  picked  it  up  and  put  it  in  my  pocket, 
and  this  is  the  very  scrap.  I  cut  off  the  burnt  edges  and 
it  don't  look  as  if  fire  had  ever  been  near  it.  I  do  wonder 
what  she  did  with  the  rest  of  it. 

"I  wonder  what  became  of  Captain  Lynmore  and 
Grace,  Aunt  Patty,  I  am  afraid  of  Neely's  dark  looks ; 
I  don't  think  I  like  Captain  Lynmore.  Why  didn't  he 
dance  with  Grace,  when  he  liked  her  so  much,  and  it  would 
have  made  her  so  happy  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  child.  He  thought  she  didn't  care 
about  him,  and  Neely  flattered  him  and  hung  upon  his 
words,  as  if  she  was  feeding  on  manna.  I  found  out  too, 
that  she  made  him  think  Grace  was  engaged  to  be  married, 
which  was  a  sin  and  a  shame,  considering  there  wasn't  a 
word  of  truth  in  it.  Now,  I  don't  conceive  how  a  per- 
son   " 


90  THE  PURPLE  SATIN  DRESS. 

Here  Estelle  made  an  impatient  gesture,  fearing  Aunt 
Patty  was  about  to  indulge  in  a  train  of  moral  reflections, 
which  she  was  in  the  habit  of  doing  more  and  more. 

"Well,  Aunt  Patty,"  says  she,  laying  her  hands  across 
her  lap  and  looking  earnestly  in  her  face. 

"  I  see  how  it  is,"  cried  Aunt  Patty,  patting  her  favorite's 
golden  head.  "  I  will  try  not  to  be  tedious — but  yon  must 
remember  that  I  am  old,  and  the  thoughts  of  the  old  must 
follow  a  beaten  track.  There  is  no  use  in  telling  you  that 
Captain  Lynmore  and  Grace  loved  each  other — for  you 
know  that  already,  and  perhaps  you  know  by  this  time, 
that  Neely  was  envious  of  her,  and  wanted  to  marry  him 
herself.  She  stood  in  the  way  of  their  happiness,  as  if 
by  keeping  them  apart,  she  could  bring  him  nearer  to  her- 
self." 

"  One  evening,  just  as  the  sun  went  down,  Grace  drew 
me  with  her  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  garden,-  where 
there  was  a  nice  seat  under  a  chestnut  tree,  and  there  we 
sat  down  together.  I  saw  she  looked  troubled  and  pale. 
You  can't  think  how  pretty  she  looked  with  her  short  hair, 
kinking  up  at  the  ends." 

"Patty,"  says  she,  twisting  the  chestnut  leaves  into 
little  queer  shapes — "  I  never  shall  be  happy  though  he 
}oves  me  better  than  life.  Neely  will  not  let  me  be  happy. 
If  I  marry  him,  she  will  be  miserable.  No,  I  must  give 
him  up  :  I  should  die  under  such  withering  looks  as  she 
casts  upon  me." 

"  Now,  I  don't  know  how  the  idea  came  into  my  head, 
but  it  seemed  to  me,  that  I  was  moved  to  say  something 
for  her  good,  that  I  had  never  thought  of  before.  I 
couldn't  bear  to  see  such  a  sweet,  pretty  young  creature 
sacrificing  herself  so." 

"You  have  a  right  to  do  as  you  please  with  yourself," 
says  I,  "  but  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  sacrifice  him.  He 
saved  your  life,  and  sets  all  the  world  by  you.  He  don't 
love  your  sister,  and  you  can't  make  him  love  her.  So  if 
you  give  him  up,  you  will  make  three  miserable  people, 
instead  of  one.  I  don't  think  the  Lord  will  be  pleased 
with  such  doings." 

"  Oh  Patty,  I  did  not  look  upon  it  in  this  light  before. 
It  would  indeed  be  an  ungrateful  return  for  all  he  has  done 


THE  PURPLE   SATIN   DRESS.  91 

for  me.    Surely,  surely  I  have  no  right,  as  you  say,  to  make 
him  wretched." 

She  had  hardly  done  speaking  when  Captain  Lynmore 
himself  came  walking  up,  with  his  left  hand  in  a  sling, 
which  only  made  him  look  more  interesting.  He  sat  down 
close  to  Grace,  and  began  to  play  with  the  leaves  she  held 
in  her  hand.  I  thought  I  was  not  wanted,  and  stole  away 
so  softly,  they  never  knew  it.  They  never  came  in  till  the 
moon  rose,  and  turned  every  thing  into  silver  all  round 
them.  I  knew  by  their  looks  that  all  was  settled  between 
them,  and  after  a  while,  he  came  up  to  me,  and  told  me  in 
a  low  voice,  that  he  was  the  happiest  man  in  the  world, 
and  that  he  owed  it  all  to  me.  I  saw  Neely  leave  the 
room,  a  few  minutes  after,  with  that  same  dark,  strange 
countenance.  Well,  they  married  before  the  end  of  the 
summer,  and  traveled  way  off  into  a  foreign  land.  They 
sent  me  the  beautifullest  silk  dress  you  ever  did  see,  and  a 
gold  ring  besides.  I  have  never  seen  them  since,  but  I 
heard  Neely  was  an  old  maid,  with  all  her  beauty.  Oh  1 
how  time  flies.  Mrs.  Delville  is  dead,  strangers  live  there 
now.  The  old  chestnut  tree  is  fallen  to  the  ground,  and 
the  garden  walks,  I  suppose,  all  overgrown  with  grass. 
Sure  enough,  darling,  we  have  no  continuing  city  here. 
But,  praise  the  Lord,  we  have  a  house  not  made  with 
hands,  eternal  in  the  heavens. 


THE  RED  VELVET  BODICE 


"WHAT  is  that,  Aunt  Patty  ?» 

'•  A  little  scrap  of  red  silk  velvet,  child.  I  can  hardly 
tell  you  what  tender  feelings  come  over  me  as  I  look  upon 
it.  It  brings  up  before  me  a  little  fairy-like  looking 
figure,  not  much  larger  than  you  are  now,  only  a  speck  or 
BO  taller.  How  well  I  remember  the  time  when  I  first 
Been  her,  dressed  out  in  this  velvet  bodice,  with  a  white 
muslin  skirt  flowing  below  it,  so  easy. " 

"  Tell  me  all  about  it,  Aunt  Patty,"  said  Estelle,  with 
her  eager,  earnest  look  of  curiosity,  which  ever  proved 
irresistible.  "  I  never  saw  any  one  that  had  such  a  store- 
house of  pleasant  memories  as  you  have.  It  seems  to  me 
that  you  know  the  history  of  everybody  that  you  ever  met 
with — the  heart  history,  and  that  is  so  much  better  than 
the  mere  outside  story,  you  know.  What  made  every 
body  tell  you  every  thing  that  they  thought  and  felt, 
Aunt  Patty  ?  Were  they  not  afraid  you  might  tell  it 
again  ?  Oh  !  I  know  the  reason.  You  are  so  good  and 
unselfish,  so  different  from  other  people,  it  is  a  comfort  to 
talk  to  you,  just  as  I  do  myself.  There  are  a  thousand 
little  things  that  I  don't  like  to  speak  about,  even  to  my 
own  mother,  that  I  am  not  afraid  to  tell  you.  You  look 
as  if  it  was  a  favor  to  yourself  to  be  allowed  to  listen  to 
us." 

"And  so  it  is,  darling.  Just  imagine  what  I  would  be, 
if  I  interested  myself  only  in  my  own  concerns,  a  poor, 
lone,  childless  creature,  like  me.  Now,  by  going  out  of 
myself,  as  it  were,  and  entering  into  other  people's  hearts, 
I  can  appropriate  to  myself  their  beauty,  and  worth,  and 
property,  and  be  as  happy  for  the  time  as  they  are  them- 
selves." 

"Tell  me  how  you  do  it,  Aunt  Patty." 
(92) 


THE  RED  VELVET  BODICE.  93 

"  I  don't  do  any  thing,  child.  I  only  feel ;  blessed  be 
God,  for  the  gift  of  a  feeling  heart.  A  great  mind  is  a 
glorious  gift,  too.  At  least  I  think  it  must  be,  but  if  1 
can't  have  but  one,  I  would  rather  possess  the  first  a  great 
deal,  for  we  don't  love  people  so  much  for  their  minds  as 
their  hearts.  "We  admire  them,  to  be  sure,  and  look  up, 
and  wonder,  but  my  poor  neck  can't  stretch  its  chords 
much  by  upward  looking,  and  I  suppose  that  is  the  reason 
I  like  the  easiest  feeling  best." 

"  But  I  would  like  to  have  both,  Aunt  Patty.  I  would 
like  to  have  a  great  and  noble  mind,  so  great  and  noble 
that  the  whole  world  should  hear  of  it,  and  almost  feel 
afraid  of  my  name,  it  would  be  so  very  famous ;  and  then, 
I  would  like  to  have  so  kind  and  tender  a  heart,  that 
every  body  would  love  me  too  much  to  fear  me,  and  for- 
get I  was  great,  because  I  was  so  good." 

Estelle  spoke  with  energy,  and  mind  and  heart  seemed 
indeed  struggling  for  mastery  in  her  childish,  but  intelli- 
gent face. 

"  And  what  else,  my  darling,  would  you  like  ?  Would 
you  stop  short  there  ?  Isn't  there  something  wanting  to 
put  a  kind  of  crown  on  all  this  ?" 

"  Oh !  yes,  Aunt  Patty.  I  would  like  to  have  a  spirit 
pure  and  holy,  filled  to  running  over  with  the  love  of  God, 
caring  for  nothing  so  much  as  to  please  Him,  and  oblige 
Him.  And  then,  you  know,  I  could  use  my  great  mind 
to  glorify  Him,  and  my  good  heart  to  make  my  fellow- 
creatures  happy.  There  is  no  harm  in  such  kind  of  ambi- 
tion, is  there,  Aunt  Patty  7" 

Aunt  Patty  laid  her  palsied  hand  in  silent  blessing  on 
the  head  of  her  blooming  favorite.  She  tried  very  hard 
to  swallow  down  her  feelings,  before  she  found  voice  to 
speak. 

"  When  you  was  a  little  thing,  Estelle,  I  feared  you 
wouldn't  live  to  grow  up,  because  you  were  smarter  than 
other  children,  and  then  I  used  to  have  strange  dreams 
about  you,  that  I  thought  were  warnings.  Now,  I  begin 
to  think  the  Lord  will  spare  you  to  be  a  burning  and 
a  shining  light  to  other  generations.  But  stop,  little 
one.  Don't  pull  that  scrap  of  velvet  to  pieces.  There 
isn't  much  of  it,  any  way,  bnt  it  is  big  enough  to  remind 


94  THE  RED  VELVET  BODICE. 

me  of  the  precious  little  soul  whose  body  was  encased  in 
the  crimson  bodice." 

Estelle  leaned  on  her  right  elbow,  in  her  usual  listen- 
ing attitude,  and  her  eyes  said  as  plainly  as  tongue  could 
speak  it,  "Well,  I  am  ready  to  hear  it." 

"  It  isn't  much  of  a  story,  child.  I  am  afraid  you  will 
not  like  what  I  have  to  say,  half  as  well  as  the  one  about 
the  purple  satin,  or  the  pea-green  taffeta,  but  I  love  this 
little  scrap  the  best  of  all,  because  I  loved  the  wearer 
best."  You  remember  how  your  father  went  to  the  south, 
the  spring  before  he  died,  and  how  your  sister  Emma 
went  there  for  her  health,  for  she  was  mighty  poorly  be- 
fore she  married  Mr.  Selwyn.  Well,  you  know  your  aunt 
Woodville  married  a  rich  southern  gentleman,  and  lives 
on  a  great  southern  plantation,  and  has  ever  so  many 
negroes.  You  have  heard  Emma  talk  about  them  a  hun- 
dred times.  Before  you  was  old  enough  to  remember, 
Mrs.  Woodville  came  on  to  the  North,  to  see  your  mother, 
my  niece  Emma  that  was — and  brought  with  her  a  young 
lady  by  the  name  of  Nora  Shirland.  When  we  heard 
that  she  was  coming,  we  felt  a  little  uneasy,  fearing  she 
would  not  enjoy  herself,  as  they  have  so  many  to  wait 
upon  them  at  the  South,  and  live  so  differently.  We 
thought  our  simple  ways  wouldn't  suit  her,  and  really 
wished  your  aunt  was  coming  by  herself. 

I  never  shall  forget  the  first  time  I  saw  Nora.  We 
were  all  watching  for  your  aunt,  for  she  had  written  to 
us  the  day  she  expected  to  arrive,  and  we  kept  looking 
and  looking  till  the  sun  was  nearly  down.  At  length  a 
carriage  stopped  at  the  door,  and  your  aunt  Woodville, 
a  fine,  tall,  handsome  lady,  got  out  first,  and  then  came  a 
little  bit  of  a  creature,  with  a  drab-colored  traveling 
dress,  fitting  her  as  nice  as  wax,  and  a  neat  straw  bonnet, 
trimmed  with  blue  lustring  ribbon,  and  a  sweet,  pleasant, 
smiling  countenance,  that  seemed  to  ask  every  body  to 
love  her,  and  promised  to  love  every  body  in  return.  She 
didn't  look  one  bit  proud  or  grand,  and  she  hadn't  been 
in  the  house  five  minutes  before  we  all  felt  as  if  we  had 
known  her  all  our  lives.  It  was  in  the  beginning  of  sum- 
mer, and  my  niece  Emma  always  did  have  the  prettiest 
roses  and  pinks  in  her  garden  I  ever  did  see  anywhere, 
and  Nora  ran  about  among  the  flowers,  with  Edmund, 


THE  BED    VELVET  BODICE.  95 

who  was  a  little  boy  then,  and  Emma,  M  .  j  though  weak 
and  sickly,  was  a  pert  and  sprightly  child.  She  took  to 
Norah  mightily,  and  used  to  string  pinks  and  wind  them 
round  a  sprig  of  camomile,  and  make  nosegays  for  her 
every  day.  Norah  always  said  they  were  beautiful, 
though  I  knew  the  flowers  she  had  at  home  were  ten  thou- 
sand times  prettier  than  any  of  ours.  She  used  to  call 
me  Aunt  Patty,  just  as  you  do,  and  would  spend  hour 
after  hour  in  looking  over  my  scraps,  and  making  me  tell 
her  about  this  one  and  that  one,  making  believe  as  if  she 
could  never  get  tired,  but  I  knew  all  the  time  she  did  it 
more  to  please  me  than  herself. 

At  first  the  ladies  were  shy  of  calling  to  see  her,  think- 
ing she  might  put  on  airs  and  think  herself  above  them, 
but  after  a  while,  they  couldn't  come  often  enough,  or  the 
gentlemen  either.  Without  seeming  to  take  a  bit  of 
pains,  she  could  entertain  just  as  many  as  there  happened 
to  be,  and  though  she  was  mighty  fond  of  talking  herself, 
she  always  let  every  one  else  have  a  chance.  You  never 
saw  any  one  so  well  pleased  with  every  thing  as  she 
seemed  to  be,  and  many's  the  time  I've  heard  her  say, 
clapping  her  hands  in  a  kind  of  earnest  way  she  had,  all 
her  own  : 

"  Oh  I  I  would  so  like  to  live  at  the  North.  Every 
thing  is  so  nice  and  comfortable,  here.  The  grass  is  so 
green,  and  the  water's  so  pure,  and  the  air  is  so  fresh, 
and  makes  one  feel  so  lively." 

"  Nothing  would  please  us  more  than  to  have  you  com- 
pliment our  young  gentlemen  so  much  as  to  let  one  of 
them  induce  you  to  remain,"  said  your  mother,  smiling  on 
her. 

"  Oh  1"  says  Mrs.  Woodville,  shaking  her  head. 
"  Nora  is  the  hardest  child  to  please  you  ever  did  see. 
There  ain't  a  young  man  at  the  South  that  can  make 
her  like  his  name  better  than  her  own,  though  many  a 
one  has  tried  it.  I  should  be  very  glad  if  Mr.  Elmwood 
could  have  better  luck." 

Now,  Mr.  Elmwood  was  a  gentleman,  who  jjras  mighty 
intimate  with  your  father,  and  alwavs  visited  at  our  house 
oftener  than  anywhere  else.  He  was  a  lawyer,  and 
knew  all  the  sciences  by  heart ;  and  when  he  walked  the 
street,  he  seemed  to  be  in  a  brown  study.  He  wasn't  a 


96  THE  RED  VELVET  BODICE. 

young  man,  but  somehow  or  other,  no  one  thought  of 
calling  him  an  old  bachelor.  I  suppose  it  was  because 
he  was  so  different  from  most  all  the  other  men,  who 
wanted  to  pass  themselves  off  for  young  beaux.  I  never 
saw  him  so  pleased  with  any  one  as  he  was  with  Nora. 
You  would  have  thought,  to  hear  them  talk,  that  she 
knew  as  much  about  the  sciences  and  the  arts  as  he  did, 
though  she  did  not  make  any  parade  of  her  learning. 
Then,  again,  when  she  talked  with  the  children,  she 
seemed  as  much  a  child  as  the  simplest  of  them. 

"Nora,  my  dear,"  says  Mrs.  Woodville,  late  one  day, 
"  what  do  you  think  of  Mr.  Elmwood  ?  How  does  he 
compare  with  your  Southern  gentlemen  ?" 

"  Oh  !  I  like  him  exceedingly,"  says  she,  her  face  smil- 
ing all  over,  it  looked  so  bright,  "and  I  don't  think  he 
would  suffer  by  comparison  with  anybody.  He  is  so  in- 
telligent, agreeable,  and  seems  to  have  such  a  generous 
and  noble  heart." 

"  Do  you  think  you  would  be  willing  to  marry  him, 
Nora  ?"  says  Mrs.  Woodville,  with  a  knowing  look. 

"  I  wish  you  would  not  want  to  turn  every  friend  into 
a  lover,"  says  Nora,  blushing.  "  We  are  the  best  friends 
in  the  world,  and  mean  to  stay  so,  if  you  will  only  let  us. 
I  don't  believe  he  thinks  of  it  any  more  than  I  do.  I 
should  be  so  sorry  if  he  heard  any  such  remark." 

"Well,"  says  I,  "Miss  Nora,  I  never  heard  a  young 
lady  talk  so  sensible  about  gentlemen  before.  I  don't 
see  why  they  can't  be  friends  as  well  as  lovers,  and  stay 
so,  too.  If  all  the  girls  would  set  as  much  store  by 
themselves,  and  not  be  in  such  a  hurry  to  get  married, 
the  young  men  wouldn't  be  half  so  vain  and  foolish. 
They  think  they  have  only  to  pick  and  choose,  and  you 
can't  make  them  believe  anybody  is  an  old  maid  from 
choice,  to  save  their  lives." 

"I  shall  make  them  know  so,  one  of  these  days,"  says 
Nora,  laughing,  "for  I  never  will  marry  unless  I  love 
with  my  whole  heart,  and  soul,  and  mind  and  strength. 
And  I  fear  the  man  lives  not,  who  can  draw  forth  my 
latent  energies  of  passion.  I  am  so  happy  as  I  am," 
continued  she,  all  in  a  glow  of  earnestness,  "so  happy  at 
home,  my  own  dear  home,  I  have  not  one  wish  to  leave  it, 


THE  RED  VELVET   BODICE.  97 

till  I  am  called  to  that  better  home,  where  love  eternal 
reigns." 

She  looked  np  as  she  said  this,  and  I  saw  a  tear  spark- 
ling in  her  clear  blue  eye.  It  made  us  all  feel  solemn, 
and  nobody  said  any  thing  more  to  her  about  Mr.  Elm- 
wood.  He  came  as  usual,  at  night,  and  she  talked  to  him 
just  as  easy  as  ever.  Now,  some  girls  are  so  silly,  if  they 
have  been  teased  about  a  gentleman,  they  can't  be  in  his 
company  afterward  without  blushing  and  simpering,  and 
acting  awkward.  But  Nora  had  the  best  sense  of  any 
young  lady  I  ever  saw ;  and  Mr.  Elmwood  thought  so, 
too.  He  never  seemed  to  care  for  ladies  before,  any  more 
than  if  he  was  the  man  in  the  moon.  Though  as  he  was 
thought  to  have  an  independent  property,  and  was  sen- 
sible and  not  bad  looking,  he  might  have  had  a  good 
chance  to  get  married  if  he  had  wanted  to. 

"  Now,  darling,  I  see  you  are  thinking  about  the  red 
velvet  bodice.  Never  mind  ;  I'm  coming  to  it  presently 
in  my  roundabout  way." 

Aunt  Patty  rapped  the  lid  of  her  golden  snuff-box,  and 
called  up  a  large  pinch  of  snuff,  which  seemed  to  have  a 
reviving  influence  on  her  faculties,  for  when  Estella 
reminded  her  of  Nora  Shirland,  and  the  Red  Velvet  Bo- 
dice, a  more  than  usual  gleam  of  animation  kindled  in  her 
faded  eyes. 

"Ah  !  yes,"  said  she.  Nora  was  a  blessed  little  crea- 
ture, and  I  love  to  dwell  upon  the  time  when  she  was 
among  us,  lighting  us  all  up,  just  like  summer  sunshine. 
She  was  so  different  from  what  we  thought  Southern  girls 
were,  she  didn't  want  any  waiting  on  in  the  world  ;  and 
instead  of  lying  in  bed  till  noon,  as  I've  heard  say  they 
do,  she  was  up  with  the  lark,  and  out  among  the  dews  of 
the  morning.  She  was  smarter  and  more  industrious  than 
half  the  Northern  girls,  though  they  think  the  ladies  at  the 
South  do  nothing  but  sit  and  be  fanned  with  big  bunches 
of  peacock's  feathers  the  live  long  day.  Mr.  Elmwood 
got  so,  that  it  seemed  he  couldn't  go  nowhere  else,  but 
just  where  she  was.  He  used  to  come  most  every  night, 
as  steady  as  the  clock  struck  the  hours,  and  no  matter  how 
folks  were  seated  when  he  came,  he  was  sure  to  get  close 
to  her,  in  a  little  time. 

One  night,  and  I  never  did  see  him  look  so  bright  and 
7 


98  THE  RED  VELVET  BODICE. 

plert  before,  he  waited  upon  her  to  a  party  that  was  given 
to  her  by  one  of  our  near  neighbors.  After  she  was 
dressed,  and  it  never  took  her  long  to  fix  herself,  though 
she  always  looked  as  nice  as  a  new-bound  Psalm  book, 
she  came  into  my  room  for  me  to  see  her. 

"I  couldn't  think  of  going,  Aunt  Patty,"  says  she, 
giving  a  little  flourish  of  her  hands,  so  natural  to  her, 
"  without  knowing  if  you  approved  my  looks  or  not.  How 
do  you  like  my  bodice  ?  Do  you  think  it  looks  too 
fine  ?  If  it  does,  I  will  take  it  off,  and  wear  something 
more  simple." 

"Bless  your  heart,"  says  I,  "  I  wouldn't  have  you  take 
it  off  on  no  account,  it  looks  so  nice  and  pretty.  It  fits 
you  off  like  a  London  doll.  I  wonder  what  Mr.  Elmwood 
will  say  to  it." 

"  Don't,  Aunt  Patty,"  says  she,  "  I  want  you  all  to  un- 
derstand that  we  are  friends,  the  very  best  friends  in  the 
world,  nothing  more." 

"I  think  Nora  will  like  Mr.  St.  Leger,"  says  Mrs. 
Worth,  my  niece  Emma,  who  stepped  in  a  few  momenta 
before.  They  say  he  is  just  returned  from  Europe,  and 
will  be  there  to-night.  He  is  the  pride  and  boast  of  our 
town.  I  am  very  glad  he  is  come  back  time  enough  for 
you  to  see  him  !" 

"  Is  he  very  tall  ?"  says  Nora,  laughing,  "  and  has  he 
fine  black  eyes,  and  very  graceful  manners  ?" 

"Why  you  nrnst  have  seen  him,"  says  my  niece  Emma. 
"  He  is  all  that  and  more." 

"  I  have  seen  him  often  in  my  mind's  eye,"  say  Nora. 
She  began  with  a  smile,  but  a  sort  of  a  pensive  shade 
settled  on  her  face  before  she  stopped. 

Aunt  Patty  stopped,  for  Mrs.  Worth  opened  the  door, 
and  with  her  usual  quiet,  gentle  tread,  approached  the 
table  on  which  her  venerable  aunt  leaned  her  palsied 
arm. 

"Ejmma,"  said  Aunt  Patty,  "I  am  glad  you  have 
come  in,  just  at  this  moment.  I'm  telling  Estelle  about 
Nora  Shirland.  You  recollect  when  she  first  met  Mr. 
St.  Leger,  the  night  she  wore  her  red  silk  velvet  bodice, 
with  a  white  muslin  skirt,  looking  so  sweet  and  modest. 
Here  is  a  little  scrap  of  it  that  I  keep  as  choice  as  gold 
dust.  Now  as  I  wasn't  at  that  party,  I  can't  say  any  thing 


THE  RED  VELVET  BODICE.  99 

about  it.  You  take  up  the  story  now  and  finish  it. 
Estelle  will  be  glad  enough  to  hear  it  from  you,  instead 
of  poor,  prosy  Aunt  Patty." 

"Oh!  no,"  exclaimed  Estelle,  "but  it  would  be  a 
rarity  to  hear  mother  tell  a  story.  Nobody  reads  aloud 
as  sweetly  as  she  does." 

"Estelle  alway  knew  how  to  flatter  a  little,"  said  her 
mother,  her  soft  gray  eyes  turning  upon  her  with  a  look 
of  the  tenderest  affection. 

"  Nora  Shirland  was  indeed  a  lovely  girl,  and  the  sum- 
mer she  passed  with  us  was  one  of  the  most  delightful 
seasons  of  my  life.  Yes,  I  remember  that  evening,  Aunt 
Patty,  well.  I  was  anxious  Norah  should  enjoy  herself, 
and  bear  away  with  her  a  pleasing  remembrance  of  our 
northern  social  gatherings.  I  wanted  that  she  should  see 
Mr.  St.  Leger,  and  that  he  should  see  our  Southern  fa- 
vorite. I  had  penetration  enough  to  perceive  that  Mr. 
Elmwood  would  never  be  to  her  more  than  a  devoted  friend, 
and  that  if  some  one  did  not  make  a  deeper  impression, 
there  was  no  prospect  of  our  transplanting  her  to  the 
bowers  of  the  North. 

"  When  Mr.  St.  Leger  made  his  appearance,  we  were  all 
grouped  about  the  piazza,  in  the  moonlight ;  for  it  was  a 
clear,  summer  night,  and  the  rooms  were  rather  small.  As 
Mr.  St.  Leger  walked  up  the  gravel  avenue  that  led  to 
the  door,  his  tall  and  finely-formed  figure  towered  in  the 
moonlight  and  made  all  those  around  appear  very  insig- 
nificant. There  was  something  in  his  air  and  manner 
that  commanded  respect  and  admiration,  and  I  think  he 
had  the  handsomest  face  I  ever  saw.  I  looked  at  Nora, 
who  was  conversing  with  Mr.  Elmwood,  and  I  was  sure 
I  saw  a  sudden  glow  on  her  cheek,  which  reddened 
still  more,  when  the  lady  of  the  house  brought  up  Mr. 
St.  Leger,  and  introduced  him.  He  addressed  her  with 
grace  and  politeness ;  but  there  was  an  air  of  reserve 
about  him,  which  seemed  to  affect  chillingly  the  warm- 
hearted Southern  girl.  She  did  not  speak  with  her  usual 
ease  and  animation ;  and  when  they  separated  and  min- 
gled with  the  rest  of  the  company,  I  have  no  doubt  it 
was  a  feeling  of  mutual  disappointment.  I  learned  after- 
ward that  every  one  had  been  praising  Nora  to  him,  and 
prophesying  that  she  would  captivate  him,  and  with  the 


100  THE  RED  VELVET  BODICE. 

natural  pride  of  men,  he  resisted  the  coercion  of  the  will 
of  others.  He  had  seen  too  much  of  the  world,  been  too 
much  flattered  and  admired,  not  to  have  a  good  deal  of 
self-appreciation,  and  Nora  had  her  share  too. 

"  I  could  not  help  being  pleased  when  I  saw  him  draw 
near  the  piano  when  Nora  was  singing,  and  stand  with 
folded  arms,  in  perfect  silence,  listening  to  her  songs. 
She  sang  with  great  sweetness  and  taste,  and  the  soul  of 
music  breathed  from  her  voice.  When  she  had  finished, 
and  rose  from  the  piano,  every  one  urged  her  for  another 
Bong.  Mr.  St.  Leger  would  sing  with  her — they  said  he 
was  one  of  the  most  delightful  singers  in  the  world.  She 
looked  up  to  him  involuntarily,  with  all  the  music  of  her 
soul  beaming  in  her  eye — and  I  firmly  believe  that  one 
glance  thawed  the  ice  of  reserve  that  had  imparted  such 
coldness  to  his  first  greeting.  His  fine  dark  eye  responded  : 
and,  turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  music  book,  he  waited  her 
selection.  He  had  one  of  the  richest,  most  mellow,  charm- 
ing voices  I  ever  heard,  and  it  harmonized  delightfully 
with  her  own.  She  looked  excited  and  happy  ;  but  she 
was  too  polite  to  monopolize  the  instrument,  and  soon 
gave  place  to  others.  After  that,  I  saw  her  walking  and 
talking  with  St.  Leger,  whose  lofty  figure  was  compelled 
to  bend  down,  to  find  himself  within  reach  of  her  gentle, 
though  animated  tones.  I  love  to  see  such  a  contrast. 
The  upward-looking,  delicate  woman  ;  the  strong,  protect- 
ing, sheltering  arm." 

"  I  told  yon,  darling,  that  I  could  not  tell  a  story  as 
your  mother  can,"  said  Aunt  Patty,  nodding  approvingly. 
"  I  talk  in  my  old-fashioned  way,  and  every  thing  sounds 
alike,  but  though  she  doesn't  say  any  thing  very  particu- 
lar or  new,  she  makes  a  great  deal  more  of  it  than  I 
could  do." 

"  Aunt  Patty  knows  she  has  got  her  name  up,"  said  Mrs. 
Worth,  smiling,  "or  she  would  not  depreciate  her  own 
talents.  She  has  long  been  considered  the  queen  of  story- 
tellers, and  is  too  secure  of  her  dominion  to  fear  any 
usurpation  on  my  part.  I  am  now  only  recalling  some  of 
the  pleasant  memories  of  the  heart." 

"  Tell,  Estelle,  about  the  ruining  of  the  velvet  bodice, 
and  how  like  a  little  angel  Nora  bore  it,"  said  Aunt 
Patty. 


THE  BED  VELVET  BODICE. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Mrs.  Worth,  "  all  young  girls  might 
profit  by  the  example  of  Nora's  gentleness  and  forbear- 
ance. In  all  country  parties  there  are  necessarily  some 
invited  for  courtesy's  sake,  who  seem  to  have  no  legitimate 
claim  of  their  own.  There  was  a  very  clumsy,  coarse,  would- 
be  fine  girl  there,  about  three  times  as  large  as  Nora,  who, 
taking  a  great  fancy  to  her  velvet  bodice,  sent  the  next 
day  to  borrow  it  for  a  pattern.  Knowing  her  so  well,  I 
begged  her  not  to  lend  it,  certain  she  would  try  it  on,  and 
spoil  it." 

"  I  would  not  appear  disobliging  or  proud,  for  any  con- 
sideration," said  Nora,  with  a  sweet  compliance.  "  I  pre- 
sume it  will  add  to  her  happiness  to  have  a  bodice  like 
mine,  and  I  cannot  refuse  so  small  a  favor." 

The  next  day,  toward  sun-down,  we  were  all  sitting  in 
the  front  room,  and  Mr.  St.  Leger  and  Mr.  Elmwood 
were  both  there,  and  Nora  found  no  more  difficulty  in  en- 
tertaining one,  than  the  other,  though  I  could  see  that 
when  Mr.  St  Leger  addressed  her,  her  countenance  lighted 
up  with  an  expression  I  had  never  seen  in  it  before.  It 
was  such  a  kindling,  glowing  countenance,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  describe. 

While  we  were  all  engaged  in  the  most  delightful  con- 
versation, a  little  coarse,  red-faced  girl  entered  the  parlor, 
without  any  announcement,  and  staring  at  every  face, 
walked  up  to  Nora,  exclaiming,  "I  guess  this  is  the  one." 
She  had  a  bundle  in  her  hand  tied  up  in  a  soiled  and  rum- 
pled napkin,  which  she  swung  round  her  fingers  with  fierce 
velocity. 

"Here's  your  jacket,"  said  she,  sticking  the  bundle  in 
Nora's  face,  who,  perfectly  astonished,  suffered  it  to  drop 
in  her  lap.  "  Sister  says  she's  sorry  she  burst  it>  but  it 
is  too  little  for  her  any  how.  She's  mended  it  the  best 
she  could,  and  says  she's  much  obliged  to  you." 

The  child  made  an  awkward  attempt  at  a  courtesy,  and 
marched  out  of  the  room,  leaving  me  excessively  morti- 
fied that  so  uncommonly  rude  a  specimen  of  country 
breeding  should  have  exhibited  itself  to  Nora  at  that  mo- 
ment. The  poorest  children  in  our  neighborhood  were, 
with  few  exceptions,  polite  and  well-bred.  As  the  bundle 
fell  in  her  lap,  it  loosened,  and  the  bodice  was  exposed  to 
view.  Nora  clasped  her  hands,  looked  surprised  and 


102  THE  RED  VELVET  BODICE. 

serious  one  moment,  then  burst  into  a  natural  laugh  of 
perfect  good  humor. 

"  Ichabod,"  she  cried,  holding  up  the  bodice,  every 
seam  of  which  was  distinguished  by  a  streak  of  the  white 
lining,  violently  exposed.  A  dark  stain  also  disfigured 
one  of  the  most  conspicuous  parts — in  short,  it  was  com- 
pletely ruined.  I  saw  that  Mr.  St.  Leger  watched  her 
countenance  with  earnest  curiosity. 

Mrs.  Worth  resumed  her  narrative.  It  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  tell  which  was  the  most  attentive  auditor,  Estelle 
or  Aunt  Patty. 

I  do  not  believe  that  it  is  possible  for  a  young  lady  to 
have  a  favorite  article  of  dress,  carelessly,  irretrievably 
ruined,  without  feeling  considerable  regret ;  but  it  is  cer- 
tain Nora  manifested  no  anger  or  vexation. 

"This  is  one  of  the  disadvantages  of  being  small," 
said  she,  folding  up  the  unfortunate  bodice,  and  laying 
it  on  one  side  ;  "if  I  was  only  of  a  reasonable  size,  this 
would  not  have  happened." 

"  Do  you  really  forgive  the  author  of  this  calamity  ?" 
asked  St.  Leger. 

"  To  be  sure,  I  do,"  answered  Nora,  smiling. 

"  From  your  heart  and  soul  ?" 

"From  my  heart  and  soul." 

"  I  did  not  believe  women  capable  of  so  much  mag- 
nanimity." 

"I  am  sorry  you  have  so  poor  an  opinion  of  our  sex." 

"  He  has  been  traveling  in  Europe,"  remarked  Mr. 
Elmwood.  "  That  accounts  for  it ;  besides,  if  he  knew 
Miss  Shirland  as  well  as  I  do,  he  would  be  as  much  sur- 
prised at  any  want  of  magnanimity  on  her  part,  as  he  now 
is  at  its  manifestation." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Elmwood,"  said  Nora,  emphatically; 
"  I  value  your  praises,  because  I  do  not  deem  them  com- 
pliments." 

"And  you  should  value  mine,  because  they  are  com- 
pliments," said  St.  Leger,  smiling ;  "a  gentleman  never 
takes  the  trouble  to  compliment  a  lady  whom  he  does  not 
wish  to  please." 

"  As  he  believes  that  the  only  passport  to  her  favor,  it 
is  natural  he  should  make  use  of  it,"  repeated  Nora, 


THE  BED   YELYET  BODICE. 

gravely,  though  there  was  an  expression  in  her  eye  that 
satirized  the  language  of  her  lips. 

"  How  can  you  remember  all  they  said,  mother  ?"  ques- 
tioned Estelle. 

I  suppose  it  made  a  deeper  impression  on  my  mind, 
on  account  of  my  anxiety  on  the  subject.  I  wanted  Nora 
to  marry  a  Northern  gentleman  and  dwell  among  us.  I 
was  convinced  that  Mr.  Elmwood  was  not  a  marrying 
man,  and  that  he  was  satisfied  with  the  warm,  pure  friend- 
ship that  existed  between  them.  I  knew  that  St.  Leger 
was  fastidious  and  refined,  and  I  feared  that  in  my  partial 
judgment,  I  exaggerated  the  winning  qualities  of  Nora. 
I  had  penetration  enough  to  perceive  that  the  equanimity 
of  temper  she  showed  with  regard  to  her  ruined  bodice 
filled  him  with  admiration  and  respect.  It  was  evident 
that  his  opinion  of  womankind  was  exalted.  He  was  a 
keen  observer,  and  those  who  shrunk  from  scrutiny,  did 
well  to  avoid  the  glance  of  his  dark  and  beaming  eye.  I 
thought  as  their  acquaintance  deepened  into  intimacy,  that 
Nora  avoided  it,  but  not  because  she  dreaded  its  spirit- 
reading  power.  Her  heart  was  transparent,  as  its  feelings 
were  deep,  like  the  waters  of  a  still  lake,  on  a  clear,  sum- 
mer day. 

Estelle  smiled,  and  looked  at  Aunt  Patty  as  much  as 
to  say,  "  Mother  relates  a  story  charmingly — does  she 
not  ?"  and  Aunt  Patty's  nod  responded,  "  You  know  I 
always  was  a  prosy  being,  darling.  My  niece  Emma 
used  to  scribble  poetry,  before  she  married  Mr.  Worth." 

As  the  autumn  drew  near,  continued  Mrs.  Worth, 
your  Aunt  Woodville  commenced  her  preparations  to 
return  to  the  South.  She  shuddered  at  the  idea  of  our 
cold  Northern  winters  ;  but  Nora  said  she  longed  for  a 
merry  sleigh  ride,  when  the  ground  was  covered  with  snow, 
and  the  moon  made  it,  if  possible,  whiter  still.  We  all 
begged  her  to  remain  and  the  children  gathered  round  her, 
with  tears,  entreating  her  not  to  leave  them. 

"  Perhaps  I  may  return  with  the  flowers  of  spring," 
said  she,  caressing  them,  "  for  dearly  do  I  love  this  genial 
Northern  home.  I  do  not  think,  however,  I  could  bear 
the  rigors  of  your  wintry  season,  with  all  my  admiration 
of  its  snow,  icicles  and  frost  gems."  She  turned  toward  the 
window,  and  looked  earnestly  at  the  trees,  which  were 


104  THE  RED  VELVET   BODICE. 

gilded  here  and  there  with  a  golden  leaf,  and  here  and 
there  touched  with  flame.  I  thought  she  looked  very  sad, 
and  I  wondered  if  St.  Leger  had  been  awakening  too 
deep  an  interest  in  her  heart,  without  giving  her  his  own 
in  return.  They  had  been  thrown  BO  much  together,  in 
social  communion,  there  seemed  such  harmony  of  thought 
and  feeling,  it  appeared  impossible,  that  if  their  affections 
were  disengaged,  they  should  not  meet  and  mingle. 

"  Niece,"  interrupted  Aunt  Patty,  poising  her  knitting- 
needle,  with  a  deliberate  air,  "  are  you  not  making  it 
too  much  of  a  love  story,  for  such  a  young  thing  as 
Estelle  ?" 

"  Oh  !  no,"  exclaimed  Estelle,  with  blushing  eagerness  ; 
"  I  like  such  stories  better  than  any  other.  I  understand 
them  too." 

I  do  not  think  there  is  any  danger  of  the  description 
of  the  attachment  of  two  such  beings  as  Nora  and  St. 
Leger,  said  Mrs.  Worth,  having  any  influence,  but 
what  is  pure  and  good.  Young  as  Estelle  is,  she  is  ca- 
pable of  sympathizing  in  the  love  which  excellence  in- 
spires. That  evening,  when  St.  Leger  came,  the  topic  of 
conversation  was  the  approaching  departure  of  our  friends. 
I  watched  his  countenance,  and  was  sure  a  change  came 
over  it,  while  Nora's  color  rose.  It  was  not  long  before 
we  missed  them  both.  There  is  a  very  pleasant  walk  in 
front  of  our  house,  you  know,  by  that  avenue  of  poplar 
trees,  which  stretches  beyond  the  garden.  I  saw  glimpses 
of  two  figures  walking  back  and  forth,  and  back  again 
yery  slowly.  It  was  easy  to  distinguish  the  lofty  form  of 
St.  Leger  in  his  dress  of  black  ;  and  any  body  could  tell 
who  Nora  was,  so  slight  and  airy  she  looked,  in  the  clear 
starlight,  in  her  white  muslin  robe  and  black  scarf,  making 
such  a  striking  contrast.  I  think  if  I  had  counted  the 
number  of  times  they  walked  up  and  down  that  avenue, 
it  could  not  have  been  less  than  a  hundred.  The  children 
had  long  been  in  bed,  Aunt  Patty  too,  your  Aunt  Wood- 
rille  retired  to  her  chamber,  and  I  remained  alone  in  the 
parlor  reading.  Your  father, — Mrs.  Worth  never  could 
mention  that  name,  without  a  glistening  eye  and  a  heav- 
ing bosom, — your  father  was  absent  from  home,  and 
though  my  eyes  were  on  the  book,  my  thoughts  were  wan- 
dering in  pursuit  of  him  At  length  Nora  entered  alone. 


THE  RED  VELVET  BODICE.  1Q5 

She  looked  pale  and  agitated,  and  I  saw  her  hands  trem- 
ble, as  she  gathered  the  scarf  more  closely  round  her. 

"Nora,"  I  exclaimed,  "you  have  been  too  long  in  the 
night  air.  You  should  not  have  done  so." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  stepping  quickly  forward,  threw 
her  arms  round  me,  and  laying  her  head  on  my  bosom, 
burst  into  tears.  I  felt  strongly  affected.  Why  should 
Nora  weep  ?  All  my  air-castles  were  then  blown  to  the 
ground,  and  I  too  wept  over  their  ruins.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments Nora  raised  her  head  and  wiped  away  her  tears. 

"  I  am  so  foolish,"  she  cried  ;  "  but  I  could  not  help  it, 
my  heart  was  so  full.  Dear  Mrs.  Worth,  I  am  so  happy." 

"  Happy,  Nora !"  a  mass  of  lead  was  lifted  from  my 
spirits.  They  rebounded  at  once. 

\  Oh  yes,  so  happy,  I  have  no  language  to  express  my 
boundless  contentment.  That  is  the  right  word,  for  I  ask 
no  more  than  just  the  blessing  gained^)  You  understand 
me,  do  you  not,  my  own  dear  friend  ?" 

"  I  think — I  know  I  do,"  replied  I,  embracing  her  with 
deep  emotion.  "  You  have  gained  the  heart  of  St.  Leger ; 
you  have  given  him  your  own  in  return.  There  are  not 
many  such  hearts,  Nora.  Oh  !  you  do  well  to  prize  it." 

(  "  I  am  not  so  happy  that  I  have  won  his  heart,  price- 
less as  I  deem  it,"  replied  Nora,  with  enthusiasm,  "  as 
that  I  have  given  my  own  ;  oh  !  there  is  far  more  happi- 
ness in  loving  than  in  being  loved.  I  began  to  fear  that 
my  twin-born  soul  had  wandered  so  far  from  my  peculiar 
sphere,  our  diverging  paths  would  never  meet  in  this 
world ;  sometimes  my  heart  felt  dull  with  the  weight  of  its 
latent  affections.  ( I  wondered  why  God  had  given  me 
such  capacities  of  loving  without  sending  me  a  being  to 
call  them  into  exercise^  The  very  first  time  I  met  St. 
Leger,  the  master  chord  of  my  heart  vibrated,  and  I 
knew  then  it  would  vibrate  forever.  But  not  till  this 
night  was  I  assured  that  the  impression  was  mutual,  that 
I  was  loved  as  deeply  and  passionately  as  the  wants  of  my 
nature  require  ;Coh !  it  is  the  realization  of  a  life-long 
dream.'! 

"God  bless  you,  dear  Nora,"  said  I,  "you  deserve  to 
be  happy  and  you  will  be  so.  But  will  your  parents  con- 
sent to  such  a  union  ?  will  they  be  willing  to  resign  you  ?" 

"  They  prize  my  happiness  more  than  their  own,"  she 


THE  RED  VELVTET  BODICE. 

replied  earnestly ;  "  besides,  if  I  do  marry  Mr.  St.  Leger," 
and  she  blushed  crimson,  as  she  said  it,  "  we  will  pass  all 
our  winters  at  the  South,  and  only  our  summers  here.  Will 
not  that  be  delightful  ?" 

"But  Mr.  Elmwood !"  I  exclaimed. 

"  No  one  will  rejoice  more  than  himself  in  my  prospec- 
tive happiness.  He  is  the  most  disinterested  of  human 
beings.  He  knows  my  whole  heart  and  I  all  of  his. 
If  I  were  in  sorrow  and  trial  I  would  go  to  him  for  com- 
fort. If  I  were  deserted  by  all  else,  I  would  be  sure  of 
the  fidelity  of  his  friendship,  the  steadfastness  of  his 
regard." 

In  less  than  a  fortnight  your  aunt  Woodville  left  us, 
and  took  Nora  with  her.  It  seemed  as  if  the  sun  were 
withdrawn  from  the  sky,  so  much  brightness  vanished  with 
her.  But  she  came  back  as  she  had  said  with  the  flowers 
of  spring,  the  happy  wife  of  St.  Leger  I  do  believe  she 
was  happy  if  ever  human  being  was ;  for  her  dream  of 
love  was  fully  realized.  He  was  the  type  of  all  that  is 
noble  and  glorious  in  man  ;  she,  all  that  is  amiable  and 
excellent  in  woman. 

"Where  do  they  live  now,  mother  ?"  asked  Estelle. 
"  Have  I  ever  seen  them  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear ;  at  first  it  was  just  as  she  had  planned. 
They  spent  their  summers  at  the  North,  their  winters  at 
the  South  ;  but  she  gradually  drew  him,  without  any  ex- 
ertion on  her  part,  to  dwell  in  her  milder  latitude.  He 
loved  the  South ;  for  the  elements  Jof  his  character  are 
more  congenial  with  it  than  the  colder  atmosphere  of  New 
England.  He  has  a  tropic  nature,  and  accident  only  gave 
him  a  birth-place  here.  I  correspond  with  Nora  still.  I 
will  read  you  some  of  her  letters,  Estelle ;  they  are  the 
transcript  of  a  true  woman's  heart." 

"  Thank  you,  mother;  but  did  Mr.  Elmwood  marry  ?" 

"  No,  my  dear,  he  was  born  to  be  the  friend  of  man 
and  womankind,  not  to  be  limited  to  the  domestic  sphere." 

"There  are  are  some  sensible  men  in  the  world,"  ob- 
served Aunt  Tatty ;  "  and  he  is  one." 


mfi    SNOW    FLAKES 


YE'RE  welcome,  ye  white  and  featnery  flakes, 
That  fall  like  the  blossoms  the  summer  wind  shakes 
From  the  bending  spray — Oh !  say,  do  ye  come, 
With  tidings  to  me,  from  my  far  distant  home  ? 

"  Our  home  is  above  in  the  depths  of  the  sky 
In  the  hollow  of  God's  own  hand  we  lie — 
We  are  fair,  we  are  pure,  our  birth  is  divine — 
Say,  what  can  we  know  of  thee,  or  of  thine?" 

I  know  that  ye  dwell  in  the  kingdoms  of  air — 

I  know  ye  are  heavenly,  pure,  and  fair ; 

But  oft  have  I  seen  ye,  far  travelers,  roam, 

By  the  cold  blast  driven,  round  my  northern  home. 

"We  roam  over  mountain,  and  valley,  and  sea, 

We  hang  our  pale  wreaths  on  the  leafless  tree : 

The  herald  of  wisdom  and  mercy  we  go, 

And  perchance  the  far  home  of  thy  childhood  we  know. 

"We  roam,  and  our  fairy  track  we  leave, 
While  for  nature  a  winding-sheet  we  wave — 
A  cold,  white  shroud  that  shall  mantle  the  gloom, 
Till  her  Maker  recalls  her  to  glory  and  bloom. 

Oh!  foam  of  the  shoreless  ocean  above! 

I  knowthou  descendest  in  mercy  and  love: 

All  chill  as  thou  art,  yet  benigh  is  thy  birth, 

As  the  dew  that  impearls  the  green  bosom  of  Earth. 

And  I've  thought  as  I've  seen  thy  tremulous  spray, 

Soft  curling  like  mist  on  the  branches  lay, 

In  bright  relief  on  the  dark  blue  sky, 

That  thou  meltedst  in  grief  when  the  sun  came  nigh. 

"  Say,  whose  is  the  harp  whose  echoing  song 
Breathes  wild  on  the  gale  that  wafts  us  along? 

(10?) 


108  THE  SNOW  FLAKES. 

The  moon,  the  flowers,  the  blossoming  tree, 

Wake  the  minstrel's  lyre,  they  are  brighter  than  we." 

The  flowers  shed  their  fragrance,  the  moonbeams  their  light, 
Over  scenes  never  vail'd  by  your  drap'ry  of  white; 
But  the  clime  where  I  first  saw  your  downy  flakes, 
My  own  native  clime  is  far  dearer  than  all. 

Oh !  fair,  when  ye  clothed  in  their  wintry  mail, 
The  elms  that  o'ershadow  my  home  in  the  vale, 
Like  warriors  they  looked,  as  they  bowed  in  the  storm, 
With  the  tossing  plume  and  the  towering  form. 

Ye  fade,  ye  melt — I  feel  the  warm  breath 
Of  the  redolent  South  o'er  the  desolate  heath — 
But  tell  me,  ye  vanishing  pearls,  where  ye  dwell, 
When  the  dew-drops  of  Summer  bespangle  the  dell? 

"  We  fade, — we  melt  into  crystalline  spheres — 
We  weep,  for  we  pass  through  a  valley  of  tears ; 
But  onward  to  glory — away  to  the  sky — 
In  the  hollow  of  God's  own  hand  we  lie." 


THE   SOLDIER'S   BRIDE. 


IT  was  verging  toward  the  evening  of  an  autumnal  day, 
in  the  year  1777.  The  forests  began  to  assume  the  varied 
and  magnificent  tints  peculiar  to  this  season,  in  an  Ameri- 
can clime ;  those  rich,  brilliant  dyes,  which,  like  the  hectic 
glow  on  the  cheek  of  consumption,  while  it  deepens  the 
charm  and  the  interest  of  beauty,  is  yet  the  herald  of  de- 
cay. The  prevailing  hue  was  still  of  a  deep,  unfaded 
green,  but  the  woods  were  girdled  by  a  band  of  mingled 
scarlet,  green,  and  yellow,  whose  gorgeous,  rainbow-like 
colors,  might  well  be  compared  to  the  wampum  belt  of  the 
Indian,  tracing  its  bright  outline  on  the  darker  ground- 
work of  the  aboriginal  dress.  These  inimitable  tints  were 
reflected  in  that  mirror,  which  the  children  of  the  forest 
denominated  the  Silver  Wave,  known  to  us  by  the  more 
familiar  but  not  less  euphonious  name  of  the  Ohio;  but 
its  bosom  was  not  then  covered  with  those  floating  palaces 
which  now,  winged  by  vapor,  glide  in  beauty  and  power 
over  the  conscious  stream.  The  bark  canoe  of  the  savage, 
or  the  ruder  craft  of  the  boatman,  alone  disturbed  the 
Bilence  of  the  solitary  water.  On  the  opposite  bank  a  rude 
fortification,  constructed  of  fallen  trees,  rocks,  and  earth, 
over  which  the  American  flag  displayed  its  waving  stripes, 
denoted  the  existence  of  a  military  band,  in  a  region  as 
yet  uncultivated  and  but  partially  explored.  Toward 
this  fort  a  canoe  was  rapidly  gliding,  whose  motions  were 
watched  by  the  young  commander,  as  he  traversed  the 
summit  of  the  parapet,  with  a  step  which  had  long  been 
regulated  by  the  measured  music  of  the  "ear-piercing 
fife  and  spirit-stirring  drum."  The  canoe  approached  the 
shore,  and  as  Captain  Stuart  descended  to  receive  his  for- 

(109) 


THE  SOLDIERS  BRIDE. 

est  visitor,  his  eye,  accustomed  as  it  had  been  to  the  ma- 
jestic lineaments  of  the  savage  chief,  could  not  withhold 
its  tribute  of  iuvoluntary  admiration,  as  they  were  now 
unfolded  to  him,  invested  with  all  the  pomp  which  marked 
his  warlike  tribe.  He  was  indeed  a  noble  representative 
of  that  interesting,  but  now  degenerate  race,  once  the  solo 
possessors  and  lordly  dwellers  of  the  wilderness,  now  de- 
spoiled and  wandering  fugitives  from  a  land  chartered 
to  them  by  the  direct  bounty  of  Heaven.  The  gallant  tuft 
of  feathers  which  surmounted  his  swarthy  brow,  the  wam- 
pum girdle  which  belted  his  waist,  his  deer-skin  robe,  or- 
namented with  the  stained  ivory  of  the  porcupine,  corre- 
sponded well  with  the  expression  of  his  glittering  eye,  and 
the  proportions  of  his  martial  limbs.  From  the  lofty 
glance  of  that  eye  he  had  received  the  appellation  of  the 
Eagle  ;  but  the  commander  of  the  fort  now  hailed  him  by 
the  name  of  Sakamaw,  which  simply  signifies  a  chief. 

"  Brother,"  said  Sakamaw,  as  he  leaned  with  stately 
grace  on  his  unstrung  bow,  "  brother,  will  the  pale  man 
dwell  in  peace  and  friendship  with  the  tribe  of  the  Shaw- 
nees,  or  shall  the  eagle  spread  its  wings  to  the  shore  that  lies 
nearer  the  setting  sun  ?  The  Mengwe  have  sworn  to 
obey  the  white  father,  who  lives  far  beyond  the  great  Salt 
Lake.  The  wolf  and  the  turtle  have  given  their  allegiance 
to  him,  and  the  serpent  and  the  buffalo  rise  up  against 
the  pale  tribe  that  are  dwelling  in  our  wilderness.  Saka- 
maw, the  friend  of  the  white  man,  comes  to  warn  him  of 
the  snare,  to  know  if  the  Eagle  shall  curl  his  talons  be- 
neath his  folded  plumes,  or  arm  them  with  the  war-bolt 
that  shall  find  the  heart  of  his  enemy  ?" 

It  was  not  without  the  deepest  emotion  that  Captain 
Stuart  heard  this  intelligence,  that  the  British  army  had 
received  such  powerful  and  dreaded  allies  as  these  fierce 
and  vindictive  tribes.  He  felt  that  he  occupied  a  peri- 
lous station,  and  notwithstanding  the  high  trust  he 
had  always  placed  in  Sakamaw,  who  was  emphatically 
called  the  friend  of  the  white  man,  as  he  looked  upon  the 
dark  brow  and  giant  frame  of  the  Indian  warrior,  all  that 
he  had  heard  of  the  treachery  and  revenge  of  a  sable  race 
flashed  upon  his  excited  imagination.  Captain  Stuart 
was  brave,  but  he  was  in  arms  against  a  foreign  foe,  who 
had  stooped  to  the  baseness  of  strengthening  its  power  by 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE. 

an  alliance  with  the  children  of  the  wilderness,  arming  in 
its  cause  their  wild,  undisciplined  passions,  and  adding 
all  the  horrors  of  border  warfare  to  the  desolation  that 
hangs  over  the  embattled  field.  He  may  be  forgiven  by 
the  bravest,  if  for  one  moment  his  generous  blood  was 
chilled  by  the  tidings,  and  suspicion  darkened  the  glance 
which  he  turned  on  the  imperturbable  features  of  the  Eagle 
chief. 

"Young  man,"  said  the  savage,  pointing  toward  the 
river,  whose  current  was  there  quickened  and  swollen  by 
the  tributary  waters  of  the  Kanawha,  "  as  the  Silver  Wave 
rolls  troubled  there  by  the  stream  that  murmurs  in  its  bosom 
BO  does  my  blood  chafe  and  foam  when  its  course  is  ruffled 
by  passion  and  revenge.  Feel  my  veins — they  are  calm. 
Look  on  my  bosom — it  is  bare.  Count  the  beating  of 
my  heart,  as  it  rises  and  falls,  uncovered  to  the  eye  of  the 
Master  of  life.  Were  Sakamaw  about  to  do  a  treacherous 
deed  he  would  fold  his  blanket  over  his  breast,  that  he 
might  hide  from  the  Great  Spirit's  view  the  dark  workings 
of  his  soul." 

"Forgive  me,  noble  chief!"  exclaimed  Stuart,  extend- 
ing his  hand  with  military  frankness  and  warmth,  "I  do 
not  distrust  you  ;  you  have  come  to  us  unweaponed,  and 
we  are  armed  ;  you  are  alone,  and  we  have  the  strength  of 
a  garrison ;  and  more  than  all,  you  warn  us  of  treachery 
and  hostility  on  the  part  of  other  tribes,  and  bring  us  of- 
fers of  continued  peace  from  your  own.  I  cannot,  I  do 
not,  doubt  your  faith;  but  as  the  rules  of  war  require  some 
pledge  as  a  safeguard  for  honor,  you  will  consent  to  re- 
main awhile  as  hostage  here,  secure  of  all  the  respect 
which  brave  soldiers  can  tender  to  one,  whose  valor  and 
worth  has  made  the  fame  of  this  forest  region." 

Sakamaw  assented  to  this  proposal  with  proud,  unhesi- 
tating dignity,  and  turned  to  follow  the  young  officer, 
whose  cheek  burned  through  its  soldierly  brown  as  he 
made  the  proposition,  which  military  discipline  required, 
but  which  he  feared  might  be  deemed  an  insult  by  the 
high-minded  savage.  Sakamaw  cast  his  eyes  for  a  moment 
on  the  opposite  shore,  where  it  was  immediately  arrested, 
and  his  foot  stayed  in  its  ascent  by  the  objects  which 
there  met  his  gaze.  An  Indian  woman,  leading  by  the 
hand  a  young  boy  of  the  same  tawny  hue,  approached  to 


112  THE  SOLDIEK'S  BRIDE. 

the  water's  side,  and  by  impressive  and  appealing  gestures, 
seemed  to  solicit  his  attention  and  compassion. 

"  Why  does  the  doe  and  the  fawn  follow  the  panther's 
path  ?"  muttered  he  to  himself.  "  Why  do  they  come  where 
the  dart  of  the  hunter  may  pierce  them,  and  leave  the 
shelter  of  their  own  green  shady  bowers  ?" 

He  hesitated,  as  if  resolving  some  doubts  in  his  own 
mind,  then  springing  into  the  canoe  that  lay  beneath  the 
bank  on  which  he  stood,  he  pushed  it  rapidly  over  the 
waters  to  the  spot  where  they  awaited  him.  Whether  the 
dark  shadow  of  future  events  cast  its  prophetic  gloom  be- 
fore him,  softening  his  heart  for  the  reception  of  conjugal 
and  parental  love,  I  know  not,  but  there  was  something 
mysteriously  tender  in  the  manner  in  which  he  departed 
from  the  coldness  and  reserve  peculiar  to  his  race,  and 
embracing  his  wife  and  son,  placed  them  in  the  light  bark 
he  had  just  quitted,  and  introduced  them  into  the  presence 
of  Stuart,  who  had  witnessed  with  surprised  sensibility 
the  unwonted  scene.  The  sensations  which  then  moved 
and  interested  him  have  been  since  embodied  in  lines 
whose  truth  the  poet  most  eloquently  felt : 

"  Think  not  the  heart  in  desert  bred, 
To  passion's  softer  touch  is  dead — 
Or  that  the  shadowy  skin  contains 
No  bright  or  animated  veins — 
Where,  though  no  blush  its  course  betrays, 
The  blood  in  all  its  wildness  plays  1" 

"  Sakamaw,"  said  he,  "you  have  decided  well.  Bring 
them  to  my  cabin,  and  see  how  warm  and  true  a  welcome 
a  soldier's  wife  can  offer.  The  walls  are  rough,  but  they 
who  share  the  warrior's  and  the  hunter's  lot,  must  not 
look  for  downy  beds  or  dainty  fare." 

It  was  a  novel  and  interesting  scene,  when  the  wife  and 
son  of  the  Indian  chief  were  presented  to  the  youthful 
bride  of  Stuart,  who  with  generous,  uncalculating  ardor, 
had  bound  herself  to  a  soldier's  destiny,  and  followed  him 
to  a  camp,  where  she  was  exposed  to  all  the  privations 
and  dangers  of  a  remote  and  isolated  station.  As  she 
proffered  her  frank,  yet  bashful  welcome,  she  could  not 
withdraw  her  pleased  and  wondering  gaze  from  the  dark, 
but  beautiful  features  of  the  savage;  clothed  in  the  peculiar 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  H3 

costume  of  her  people,  the  symmetry  of  her  figure,  and  the 
grace  of  her  movements,  gave  a  singular  charm  to  the 
wild  and  gaudy  attire.  The  refined  eye  of  Augusta  Stuart 
shrunk  intuitively,  for  a  moment,  from  the  naked  arms  and 
uncovered  neck  of  the  Indian ;  but  there  was  such  an  ex- 
pression of  redeeming  modesty  in  her  countenance,  and 
her  straight,  glossy  hair,  falling  in  shining  folds  over  her 
bosom,  formed  so  rich  a  vail,  the  transient  disgust  was 
lost  in  undisguised  admiration  at  the  beauties  of  a  form 
which  a  sculptor  might  have  selected  as  a  model  for  his 
art.  The  dark-haired  daughter  of  the  forest,  to  whose 
untutored  sight  the  soldier's  bride  appeared  fair  and 
celestial  as  the  inhabitant  of  a  brighter  sphere,  returned 
her  scrutinizing  gaze  with  one  of  delighted  awe.  Her 
fair  locks,  which  art  had  formed  into  waving  curls  on  her 
brow,  her  snowy  complexion  and  eyes  of  heavenly  blue, 
beamed  upon  her  with  such  transcendant  loveliness,  her 
feelings  were  constrained  to  utter  themselves  in  words,  as 
she  had  learned  from  her  husband  the  language  of  the 
whites. 

"Thou  art  fairer  than  the  sun,  when  he  shines  npon  the 
Silver  Wave,"  exclaimed  Lehella,  such  being  the  name  of 
the  beautiful  savage.  "  I  have  seen  the  moon  in  her  bright- 
ness, the  flowers  in  their  bloom,  but  neither  the  moon 
when  she  walks  over  the  hills  of  uight,  nor  the  flowers 
when  they  open  their  leaves  to  the  south  wind,  are  so  fair 
and  lovely  as  thou,  daughter  of  the  land  of  snow." 

The  fair  cheek  of  Augusta  mantled  with  carnation,  as 
the  low,  sweet  voice  of  Lehella  breathed  forth  this  spon- 
taneous tribute  to  her  surpassing  beauty.  Accustomed  to 
restrain  the  expression  of  her  own  feelings,  she  dared  not 
avow  the  admiration  which  had,  however,  passed  from  her 
heart  into  her  eyes,  but  she  knew  that  praise  to  a  child 
was  most  acceptable  to  a  mother's  ear,  and  passing  her 
white  hand  over  the  jetty  locks  of  the  Indian  boy,  she 
directed  the  attention  of  her  husband  to  the  deep  hazel  of 
his  sparkling  eye,  and  the  symmetrical  outlines  of  a  figure 
which  bore  a  marked  similitude  to  the  chiseled  represen- 
tations of  the  infant  Apollo.  The  young  Adario,  how- 
ever, seemed  not  to  appreciate  the  favors  of  his  lovely 
hostess,  and  shrinking  from  her  caressing  hand,  accom- 
panied his  father,  who  was  conducted  by  Captain  Stuart 
8 


114  THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE. 

to  the  place  where  be  was  to  make  his  temporary  abode. 
The  romance,  which  gave  a  kiud  of  exciting  charm  to  the 
character  of  Augusta,  had  now  found  a  legitimate  object 
for  its  enthusiasm  and  warmth.  By  romance,  I  do  not 
mean  that  sickly,  morbid  sensibility,  which  turns  from  the 
realities  of  life  with  indifference  or  disgust,  yearning  after 
strange  and  hair-breadth  events — which  looks  on  cold  and 
unmoved,  while  real  misery  pines  and  weeps,  and  melts 
into  liquid  pearl  at  the  image  of  fictitious  wo — 1  mean 
that  elevation  of  feeling  which  lifts  one  above  the  weeds 
of  the  valley  and  the  dust  and  soil  of  earth — that  sunny 
brightness  of  soul,  which  gilds  the  mist  and  the  cloud, 
while  it  deepens  the  glory  and  bloom  of  existence — that 
all-pervading,  life-giving,  yet  self-annihilating  principle, 
which  imparts  its  own  light  and  energy  to  every  thing 
around  and  about  it,  and  animating  all  nature  with  its 
warmth  and  vitality,  receives  the  indiscriminate  bounties 
of  heaven,  the  sunbeam,  the  gale,  the  dew  and  the  flower, 
as  ministers  of  individual  joy  and  delight.  Augusta  had 
already  begun  to  weave  a  fair  vision  for  the  future,  in  which 
the  gentle  Lehella  was  her  pupil  as  well  as  her  companion, 
learning  from  her  the  elegancies  and  refinements  of  civil- 
ized life,  and  imparting  to  her,  something  of  her  own  wild 
and  graceful  originality.  She  witnessed  with  delight  the 
artless  expression  of  wonder  the  simple  decorations  of  her 
rude  apartment  elicited  from  her  untaught  lips,  for  though 
in  the  bosom  of  the  wilderness,  and  dwelling  in  a  cabin 
constructed  of  the  roughest  materials,  the  hand  of  feminine 
taste  had  left  its  embellishing  traces,  wherever  it  had 
touched.  Wild,  autumnal  flowers  mingled  their  bloom 
and  fragrance  over  the  rustic  window-frame*;  sketches  of 
forest  scenery  adorned  the  unplastered  walls,  and  a  guitar 
lying  on  the  table,  showed  that  the  fair  mistress  of  this 
hnmble  mansion  had  been  accustomed  to  a  more  luxurious 
home,  and  more  polished  scenes.  I  cannot  but  linger  for 
a  moment  here,  for  to  me  it  is  enchanted  ground — a  beauti- 
ful and  accomplished  woman,  isolated  from  all  the  allure- 
ments of  the  world,  far  from  the  incense  of  adulation,  and 
the  seductions  of  pleasure,  shedding  the  light  of  her  love 
liness  on  the  bosom  of  wedded  love,  and  offering  the  jresh 
and  stainless  blossoms  of  her  affections  on  that  si  rine, 
which,  next  to  the  altar  of  God,  is  holiest  in  her 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE. 

eyes.  Bat  I  must  turn  to  a  darker  spot,  one  which  has 
left  an  ineffable  stain  in  the  annals  of  our  domestic  history, 
but  which  is  associated  with  so  many  interesting  events,  I 
would  fain  rescue  it  from  oblivion. 

The  next  morning  the  garrison  was  a  scene  of  confusion 
and  horror.  A  party  of  soldiers  had  been  absent  during 
the  evening  on  a  hunting  expedition,  being  a  favorite 
recreation  in  the  bright  moonlight  nights.  When  the 
morning  drum  rolled  its  warning  thunder,  and  the  hunters 
came  not  as  wont  to  perform  their  military  duties,  a  gen- 
eral feeling  of  surprise  and  alarm  pervaded  the  fort.  Gil- 
more,  the  next  officer  in  rank  to  Stuart,  had  a  very  young 
brother  in  this  expedition,  and  filled  with  fraternal  anxiety, 
he  collected  another  party,  and  endeavored  to  follow  the 
steps  of  the  fugitives.  After  hours  of  fruitless  search, 
they  discovered  a  fatal  signal,  which  guided  their  path, 
blood  staining  the  herbage  on  which  they  trod,  and  plung- 
ing deeper  into  the  forest,  they  found  the  murdered  bodies 
of  the  victims,  all  bearing  recent  traces  of  the  deadly 
scalping  knife.  The  soldiers  gazed  on  the  mangled  and 
disfigured  remains  of  their  late  gallant  comrades  with 
consternation  and  dismay,  when  Gilmore,  rousing  from 
their  stunning  influence,  rushed  forward,  and  raising  the 
body  of  his  youthful  brother  in  his  arms,  defaced  and 
bleeding  as  it  was,  he  swore  a  terrible  oath,  that  for  every 
drop  of  blood  that  had  been  spilled,  Heaven  should  give 
him  vengeance.  The  other  soldiers,  who  had  neither 
brother  nor  kindred  among  the  ghastly  slain,  shrunk  with 
instinctive  loathing  from  their  gory  clay,  but  breathing 
imprecations  against  the  savage  murderers,  they  followed 
the  steps  of  Gilmore,  who,  weighed  as  he  was  by  his  lifeless 
burden,  with  rapid  and  unfaltering  course  approached  the 
fort. 

"  Behold  1"  cried  he  to  Stuart,  who  recoiled  in  sudden 
horror  at  the  spectacle  thus  offered  to  his  view,  "  behold  1" 
and  his  voice  was  fearful  in  its  deep  and  smothered  tones, 
"  had  he  been  a  man — but  a  boy,  committed  to  my  charge 
with  the  prayers  and  tears  of  a  doating  father — the  Ben- 
jamin of  his  old  age — oh !  by  the  shed  blood  of  innocence 
and  youth — by  the  white  locks  of  age,  I  swear — to  avenge 
his  death  on  the  whole  of  that  vindictive  race,  who  thus 
dare  to  deface  the  image  of  their  Maker — my  poor,  poor 


116  THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE. 

brother!" — and  the  rough  soldier,  overcome  by  the  agony 
of  his  grief,  deposited  the  mangled  body  in  the  ground, 
and  throwing  himself  prostrate  by  its  side,  "  lifted  up  his 
voice  and  wept  aloud."  The  manly  heart  of  Stuart  was 
deeply  affected  by  this  awful  catastrophe,  and  the  violent 
emotion  it  had  excited  in  one  of  the  most  intrepid  of  their 
band.  That  the  treacherous  deed  had  been  committed 
by  one  of  those  tribes,  of  whose  hostility  Sakamaw  had 
warned  him,  he  could  not  doubt ;  and  he  looked  forward 
with  dark  forebodings  to  the  stormy  warfare  that  must 
ensue  such  bold  and  daring  outrage.  He  turned  toward 
Augusta,  who,  pale  with  terror,  stood  with  her  Indian 
friend,  somewhat  aloof  from  the  dark-browed  group  that 
surrounded  the  mourner  and  the  mourned,  and  the  thought, 
that  even  the  arm  of  love,  "stronger  than  death,"  might 
not  be  able  to  shield  her  from  the  ravages  of  such  an  enemy, 
froze  for  a  moment  the  very  life-blood  in  his  veins.  Saka- 
maw was  no  unmoved  spectator  of  the  scene  we  have 
described ;  but  whatever  were  his  internal  emotions,  his 
features  remained  cold  and  calm  as  the  chisled  bronze 
they  resembled.  He  saw  many  a  fierce  and  lowering 
glance  directed  toward  him,  but  like  lightning  on  the  same 
impassive  surface,  neither  kindling  nor  impressing,  they 
played  around  the  stately  form  of  the  eagle  chief. 

"  White  warrior,"  said  he,  advancing  nearer  to  Stuart, 
in  the  midst  of  the  excited  soldiers,  "the  Serpent  has 
coiled  himself  in  the  brake,  to  sting  at  the  midnight  hour. 
The  Wolf  has  lurked  in  ambush,  and  his  fangs  are  dripping 
with  the  blood  of  the  young.  But  the  Eagle  soars  in  the 
noontide  beam,  and  hurls  the  thunderbolt  in  the  face  of 
his  foe.  His  children  are  guiltless  of  the  innocent 
blood." 

While  Sakamaw  was  speaking,  there  was  a  sullen 
murmur  of  discontent  among  the  soldiers — the  low  growl 
that  harbingers  the  tempest's  wrath.  Gilmore,  too,  rose 
from  his  recumbent  position, .  and  stood  with  clenched 
hands,  shut  teeth,  ashy  lips,  and  eyes  that  burned  red  and 
malignant  through  tears  that  the  heat  of  revenge  were 
now  drying  ere  they  fell.  There  is  nothing  so  exasperat- 
ing to  one  inflamed  by  hot  and  contending  passions,  as 
the  sight  of  stoic  indifference  or  perfect  eelf-control.  As 
the  waters  chafe  and  foam  against  the  moveless  cliff,  that 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  H7 

.stands  in  "unblenched  majesty"  in  the  midst  of  the  raving 
element ;  the  tide  of  human  passion  rages  most  violently 
when  most  calmly  opposed. 

"  Dog  of  an  Indian  1"  muttered  Gilmore,  "  painted  hypo- 
crite !  fiend  of  subtlety  and  guile  I  How  dare  you  come 
hither  with  your  vain,  boasting  words,  honey  on  your  lips 
and  gall  and  bitterness  in  your  heart  ?  By  the  all-behold- 
ing heavens  1  you  shall  answer  for  every  drop  of  blo.od 
spilled  last  night,  by  your  own  hand,  or  by  the  hands  of 
your  hellish  tribe  1" 

"  Gilmore,  Gilmore !"  exclaimed  Stuart,  in  a  tone  of 
deep  command,  "you  are  worse  than  mad.  Respect  the 
laws  of  military  honor,  nor  dare  to  insult  one  who  has 
voluntarily  surrendered  himself  as  a  hostage  for  his  tribe. 
This  chief  is  under  my  protection,  under  the  guard  and 
protection  of  every  noble  and  honorable  heart.  Look 
upon  him,  he  is  unarmed,  yet  with  generous  trust  and  con- 
fidence he  has  entered  the  white  man's  camp  to  warn  him 
of  the  very  outrages  over  which  we  now  mourn.  Gil- 
raore,  be  a  man,  be  a  soldier,  and  command  our  sympathy 
not  our  indignation." 

The  voice  of  the  young  commander,  which  had  been 
wont  to  suppress  every  expression  of  mutiny  or  discontent 
by  its  slightest  tones,  now  made  an  appeal  as  vain  as  it 
was  just.  "  Pown  with  the  red  dog  I  down  with  him, 
Gilmore  !"  burst  forth  and  echoed  on  every  side.  Again 
did  Stuart  raise  his  commanding  voice,  till  it  rose  high 
and  clear-as  the  sound  of  the  bugle's  blast.  He  was  an- 
swered by  the  same  rebellious  and  daring  shouts.  Le- 
hella,  who  had  looked  on  in  wild,  undefinable  alarm,  now 
comprehended  the  full  extent  of  the  danger  which  hung 
over  the  devoted  Sakamaw,  and  rushing  through  the 
lawless  band,  she  wreathed  her  slender  arms  around  his 
majestic  frame  in  the  unavailing  hope  of  shielding  him 
from  their  rage. 

"Fly,  Sakamaw,  fly!"  she  exclaimed,  "the  deer  is  not 
swifter  than  the  foot  of  the  hunter.  Fly  with  Adario, 
from  the  home  of  the  pale  man.  There  is  death  in  his 
gleaming  eye." 

"  Sakamaw  will  never  fly  from  the  face  of  his  foe.  The 
Great  Spirit  is  looking  down  upon  my  heart,  and  he  sees  it 
is  white  of  the  blood  of  the  brave."  As  the  noble  savage 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE. 

uttered  these  words,  he  looked  up  into  the  deep  blue 
heavens,  and  drew  back  the  deer-skin  robe  from  his  breast, 
as  if  inviting  the  scrutiny  of  the  All-seeing  to  the  recesses 
of  his  naked  heart.  It  would  seem  that, 

"  If  heaven  had  not  some  hand 
In  this  dark  deed," 

such  magnanimous  sentiments  would  have  arrested  the 
course  of  their  revenge,  but  they  were  blind,  and  deaf, 
and  infuriated.  Gilmore  felt  in  his  bosom  for  the  pistol 
which  he  carried  for  his  own  safeguard.  Augusta  saw  the 
motion,  which  was  unperceived  by  Stuart,  who  was  en- 
deavoring to  stem  the  torrent  swelling  around  him  ;  with 
an  irresistible  impulse  she  pressed  forward,  and  seized  his 
arm  at  the  very  moment  it  was  extended  toward  his  victim. 
The  motion  and  the  report  of  the  pistol  were  simultane- 
ous. The  angel  of  mercy  was  too  late — the  death-shot 
pierced  the  bosom  of  Sakamaw,  and  the  faithful  breast 
that  had  vainly  interposed  itself  between  him  and  the  im- 
pending blow.  They  fell — the  forest  oak  and  the  car- 
ressing  vine — blasted  by  the  avenging  stroke,  and  the 
pause  that  succeeds  the  thunder's  crash  is  not  more  awful 
than  that  whieh  followed  the  deadly  deed. 

"Great  God!"  exclaimed  Stuart,  "what  have  you 
done  ?  All  the  rivers  of  the  West  cannot  wash  out  this 
foul  stain."  With  feelings  of  bitter  agony  he  knelt  by 
the  side  of  the  dying  chieftain  and  his  martyred  wife. 

"  Sakamaw,"  he  cried,  "  friend,  brother  of  the  white 
man,  speak,  if  you  have  breath  to  utter,  and  say  you  be- 
lieve me  guiltless  of  this  crime — would  that  I  had  died 
ere  I  beheld  this  hour." 

The  expiring  Indian  opened,  for  the  last  time,  that  eye 
which  had  been  to  his  tribe  a  lamp  in  peace  and  a  torch 
in  war,  but  the  eagle  glance  was  quenched  in  the  mists  of 
death.  Twice  he  endeavored  to  speak,  but  the  word 
"Adario,"  was  all  that  was  articulate. 

"  Yes,  Sakamaw,"  he  cried,  I  will  be  a  friend  to  thy  boy 
through  life;  in  death  I  will  cherish  him." 

Who  can  fathom  the  depth,  the  strength  of  a  mother's 
love  ?  Lehella,  who  had  lain  apparently  lifeless  on  the 
bosom  of  Sakamaw,  while  Augusta,  with  bloodless  cheeks 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  119 

and  lips,  hung  weeping  o'er  her,  seemed  to  arouse  from 
the  lethargy  of  death,  at  the  name  of  her  son.  She  raised 
her  cold  cheek  from  its  bloody  pillow,  and  joining  together 
her  hands,  already  damp  with  the  dews  of  dissolution,  ex- 
claimed in  a  voice  unutterably  solemn,  while  she  lifted  her 
dim  and  unwavering  glance  to  heaven,  "  Oh,  thou  Every- 
where, protect  my  son  /"* 

With  this  sublime  adjuration  to  the  Omnipotent  Spirit 
of  the  universe,  her  soul  made  its  transit,  and  Stuart  and 
Augusta  were  left  kneeling  on  either  side  of  the  dead 
bodies  of  the  martyred  Indians. 

It  is  painful  to  record  a  deed  which  must  forever  stain 
the  annals  of  American  history ;  but  now,  while  we  glow 
with  indignation  at  the  tale  of  Indian  barbarities  on  the 
frontiers  of  the  West,  let  us  remember  the  story  of  their 
past  wrongs — let  us  think  of  the  fate  of  the  magnanimous 
Sakamaw,  whose  memory, 

"  In  long  after  years, 
Should  kindle  our  blushes  and  waken  our  tears." 


Years  rolled  on.  The  wilderness  began  to  blossom 
"  like  the  rose,"  and  the  solitary  placesio  look  joyous  with 
life  and  bright  with  promise  ;  while  on  the  fair  banks  of 
the  Ohio  the  inhabited  village,  the  busy  town,  or  the 
prouder  city,  rose  in  beauty  and  imitative  splendor.  It 
was  where  the  father  of  ancient  waters  flows  on  in  all  the 
opulence  of  its  waves,  still  deep  in  the  bosom  of  the  wil- 
derness, an  isolated  cabin  reared  its  head  through  thick  clus- 
ters of  o'ershadowing  vines  and  perennial  trees.  The  moon 
showered  down  its  virgin  rays  on  the  woods,  the  waters,  the 
peaceful  cottage,  the  rustling  trees — and  lingered  in  bright- 
ness round  two  solitary  figures  reclining  on  the  bank, 
watching  the.  course  of  the  swelling  stream.  Its  pallid 
beams  revealed  the  features  of  a  man,  who  had  passed 
life's  vernal  season,  and  was  verging  toward  the  autumnal 
gray ;  but  though  the  lines  of  deep  thought  or  sorrow 
were  distinctly  marked  on  his  pale  brow,  there  was  an  air 

*  This  impressive  prayer  was  in  reality  breathed  by  a  dying  Indian 
mother. 


120  THE  SOLDIERS  BRIDE. 

of  military  dignity  and  command  investing  in  his  figure, 
which  showed  at  once  that  his  youth  had  been  passed  in 
the  tented  field.  The  other  figure  was  that  of  a  young 
man,  in  all  the  vigor  of  earliest  manhood,  in  the  simple 
dress  of  a  forester,  with  the  swarthy  cheek,  glittering  eye 
and  jet-black  locks  of  the  Indian  race.  As  we  do  not 
aim  at  mystery  in  the  development  of  this  simple  story, 
we  will  gather  up  in  a  few  words  the  events  of  years,  in 
whose  silent  flight  the  young  and  gallant  Stuart  had  be- 
come the  subdued  and  pensive  moralist,  who  sat  gazing 
on  the  brink  of  the  stream  ;  and  Adario,  the  orphan  boy 
of  the  murdered  Sakamaw,  the  manly  youth  whose  ardent 
yet  civilized  glance,  reflected  the  gleams  that  shone  fitfully 
round  them.  The  young,  the  beautiful  Augusta  was  now 
the  dweller  of  "  the  dark  and  narrow  house,"  and  the 
widowed  husband,  disgusted  with  the  world,  retired  still 
deeper  into  the  shades  of  the  West,  with  the  child  of  his 
adoption,  and  one  sweet  inheritor  of  her  mother's  charms, 
who  had  been  baptized  by  the  soft  name  of  Lehella,  in 
memory  of  the  mother  of  Adario.  The  only  daughter, 
accompanied  by  a  maternal  friend,  had  for  the  first  time 
visited  the  scenes  of  her  parent's  nativity,  and  it  was  to 
watch  the  boat  which  was  to  bring  back  the  rose  of  the 
wilderness  to  the  solitary  bower  that  the  father  and  Indian 
youth,  night  after  night,  lingered  on  the  banks,  catching 
the  faintest  sound  which  anticipation  might  convert  into 
the  ripple  caused  by  the  dipping  oar.  Restless  and  stormy 
unuttered  feelings  agitated  the  breast  of  Adario.  Bred 
under  the  same  roof,  educated  by  the  same  enlightened 
and  gifted  mind,  these  children  of  the  forest  grew  up  to- 
gether entwined  in  heart  and  soul,  like  two  plants,  whose 
roots  are  wreathed,  and  whose  leaves  and  tendrils  interlace 
each  other  in  indissoluble  wedlock.  The  son  of  Sakamaw, 
the  daughter  of  Augusta — the  dark  and  the  fair — the 
eagle  and  the  dove ;  it  seemed  to  the  sad  and  imagina- 
tive Stuart,  that  the  spirit  of  the  injured  Sakamaw  would 
rejoice  in  the  land  of  ghosts,  at  the  bond  that  should 
unite  these  descendants  of  their  sundered  tribes.  Adario, 
tortured  by  jealousy  and  fear,  awaited  the  return  of  Le- 
hella, with  all  the  fiery  impatience  peculiar  to  the  dark 
nation  from  whom  he  derived  his  existence,  though  in 
her  presence  he  was  gentle  and  mild  as  the  gentlest  of 


THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE.  121 

his  sex,  and  all  the  harsher  traits  of  the  aboriginal  char- 
acter were  softened  and  subdued,  retaining  only  that  dig- 
nity and  elevation  we  can  never  deny  is  their  own  legiti- 
mate dower. 

Though  they  had  usually  retired  before  the  midnight 
hour,  they  remained  this  night  longer,  by  a  kind  of  mys- 
terious sympathy  and  indefinable  apprehension.  Clouds 
gathered  over  the  calm  and  silvered  Heavens,  and  gradually 
deepening  in  darkness,  wrapt  the  woods  and  waters  in 
their  solemn  shadows.  A  low,  sullen  growl,  broke  at  in- 
tervals on  the  silence  of  the  night,  and  they  looked  up 
anxiously  for  the  flash  which  was  to  be  herald  of  another 
peal  of  the  yet  distant  thunder.  All  was  gloom  above,  and 
around  ;  still  the  same  sullen,  murmuring  sound,  came 
more  distinctly  on  the  air,  which  was  now  damp  with  the 
laboring  storm.  At  last,  a  light  gleamed  on  the  waters 
— bright,  but  still  remote — and  sent  a  long  stream  of 
radiance  down  the  channel  of  the  river,  far  as  the  spot 
where  they  were  seated,  gazing  in  a  kind  of  fascination  on 
the  unwonted  splendor.  Louder  and  louder  were  those 
sullen  murmurs,  and  deeper  and  brighter  grew  the  ominous 
and  lightning-like  flashes  that  illumined  the  darkness  of  the 
wilderness.  Onward  it  came,  as  if  containing  the  princi- 
ple of  vitality  in  the  fiery  element  that  spread  broader  and 
fiercer  around  it — howling  forth,  as  it  came,  those  un- 
earthly souuds,  which  to  the  ear  of  an  untutored  savage, 
would  have  seemed  the  angry  thunders  of  the  Manitou. 
Standing  on  the  very  brink  of  the  river  with  breathless  sus- 
pense, they  watched  the  approach  of  the  blazing  phantom, 
when  the  father,  whose  perceptions  became  clearer  as  it 
neared,  and  who  had  heard  of  those  wondrous  fabrics,  one  of 
those  noblest  inventions  of  human  genius,  that  propelled  by 
vapor,  triumph  in  speed  over  the  majestic  ship  or  the 
lighter  bark,  believed  he  now,  for  the  first  time,  beheld  one 
of  these  wonders  of  the  waves,  enveloped  in  a  glory  which 
was  only  the  herald  of  its  destruction.  The  thought  of 
his  daughter,  that  she  might  be  exposed  to  the  awful  fate, 
wrapped  in  those  volumed  flames,  came  over  him  like  a 
death-blast.  At  this  moment  wild  shrieks  and  tumultu- 
ous cries  were  heard  confusedly  mingling  with  the  hoarse 
thunders  and  plunging  sound  of  the  waters — figures  be- 
came visible  through  the  sheets  of  flame,  wreathed  with 


122  THE  SOLDIER'S  BRIDE. 

blackening  smoke,  that  reflected  'now  their  lurid  bright- 
ness on  the  whole  face  of  the  sky.  Suddenly  a  form  burst 
through  the  blazing  curtain,  like  an  angel  of  light  mid  the 
regions  of  despair — it  was  but  a  glimpse  of  loveliness ; 
but  that  one  glimpse  discovered  the  fair,  far-waving  locks, 
the  snow-white  brow,  and  beauteous  outlines  of  the  daughter 
of  Stuart.  They  saw  her  stretch  forth  her  virgin  arms  to 
the  pitiless  Heavens — then  plunge  through  one  devouring 
element  into  the  cold  embraces  of  another  still  as  deadly. 
With  one  long,  loud  shriek  of  agony.— the  father  and  lover 
sprang  from  the  shelving  bank,  and  disappeared  in  the 
ignited  waves  1 

The  morning  sun  shone  bright  and  clear  on  the  black- 
ened wreck  of  the  Evening  Star,  the  name  of  the  devoted 
boat,  and  the  waters  flowed  on  calmly  and  majestically,  as 
if  they  never  echoed  to  the  shrieks  of  the  dying,  or  closed 
over  the  relics  of  human  tenderness  and  love.  The  soli- 
tary cottage  was  still  the  abode  of  life,  and  youth,  and 
hope.  Adario  and  Lehella,  redeemed  from  a  fiery  or  a 
watery  grave,  were  once  more  embosomed  in  its  peaceful 
shades  ;  but  they  were  orphans.  The  river  of  the  West 
was  now  the  sepulchre  of  the  gallant  soldier.  Lehella 
wept  for  her  father — but  she  wept  on  the  bosom  of  her 
lover ;  and  she  felt  she  was  not  alone. 

It  was  a  mysterious  destiny  that  thus  united  the  off- 
spring of  two  hostile  nations  in  the  loneliness  of  Nature, 
the  sacredness  of  love,  aud  the  holiness  of  religion — for 
Adario  had  learnt  to  worship  the  Christian's  God.  The 
memory  of  Sakamaw,  the  friend  of  the  white  man,  is  still 
hallowed  in  the  traditions  of  the  West;  but  many  a 
traveler  passes  by  the  cottage  of  the  wilderness,  and  gazes 
oil  its  shaded  image  in  the  current  that  bears  him  along, 
unconscious  that  the  son  of  the  eagle  chief,  and  the 
daughter  of  his  brave  defender,  dwell  within  its  secluded 
walls. 


DE  LARA'S  BRIDE. 


'ERK  yet  the  curtain  lifts  its  vailing  fold, 

Now  o'er  scenes  of  tragic  art  unroll'd, 

The  eye  of  hope  this  brilliant  ring  surveys, 

And  draws  prophetic  radiance  from  the  gaze. 

The  third  sad  sister  of  the  seraph  choir, 

Who  wake  the  music  of  the  deep-toned  lyre, 

This  night,  presiding  genius  of  the  Stage, 

Has  searched  the  hoarded  treasures  of  an  age. 

Rich  in  the  dearest  memories  of  earth — 

In  chivalry,  devotion,  valor,  worth — 

She  comes,  with  thorns  upon  her  pallid  brow, 

Though  thorns  and  sorrow  lurk  beneath  their  glow. 

The  passions  follow  darkly  in  her  train, 

Wild  as  the  billows  of  the  storm-swept  main ; 

But  reason,  Nature  vindicate  their  cause, 

And  conscience  writhes  o'er  its  insulted  laws. 

Who  has  not  felt,  when  reeling  o'er  the  verge, 

Of  crime  to  which  temptations  madly  urge, 

A.n  antepast  of  that  undying  sting — 

That  quenchless  fire,  prepared  for  guilt's  dread  king ; 

And  shrunk,  as  if  the  Lord's  avenging  wrath 

Had  placed  upbraiding  phantoms  in  their  path  ? 

To  paint  these  agonies,  to  show  the  wreck 

Of  Mind's  proud  sovereignty  when  on  the  neck 

Of  unthroned  reason  Passion  victor  stands, 

While  pale  Remorse  in  stealth  its  victim  brands  ! 

This  is  the  empire  of  the  heaven-born  maid — 

May  no  polluting  steps  or  realms  invade. 

Never  may  that  celestial  fire,  which  erst 

From  Pindus'  mount  in  flames  of  glory  burst, 

Descend  to  gild  that  scene  where  vice  maintains 

Its  sorcery  o'er  the  slave  within  its  chains — 

Where  genius  forms  unholy  league  with  fame, 

And  makes  itself  immortal  by  its  shame. 

Ye  sons  of  Erudition  !  classic  band  ! 

Rulers  of  taste  !  iu  this  unshackled  land — 

(123) 


124  I>E  LARA'S  BRIDE. 

All  that  ye  can,  in  candor,  truth  accord, 

To  this  new  candidate  of  fame  award. 

Man's  own  justice  may  relax  its  frown, 

"When  woman  aims  to  win  the  laurel  crown. 

Till  now,  the  smiles  of  partial  friends  have  warm'd 

The  germs  of  fancy,  their  fond  love  disarm'd 

Relenting  criticism — vail'd  in  mist 

Each  venial  error.     In  the  crowded  list 

Of  Bards,  adventurous  champion  now  she  waits, 

As  stood  the  fabled  Sylph  at  Eden's  gates, 

Trembling  to  know  if  hers  were  that  bright  gift, 

Of  power  the  everlasting  bars  to  lift. 

Daughters  of  loveliness  !  we  turn  to  you — 

Stars  of  the  arch,  fair  bending  on  the  view  ; 

'Tis  yours  to  kindle  that  propitious  beam 

Whose  visioned  radiance  gilds  the  poet's  dream. 

To  you  a  sister,  in  the  bard,  appeals 

For  all  that  woman  most  devoutly  feels, 

Most  dearly  prizes — pure  spontaneous  praise. 

Oh  !  when  some  unseen  hand  these  folds  shall  raise 

May  some  kind  genius  o'er  the  walls  preside, 

And  more  than  welcome  great  De  Lara's  Bride. 


THE 

PREMATURE  DECLARATION   OF    LOYE. 


"  BROTHER  TIM — do  pray  be  careful,  and  not  brush 
the  leaves  of  my  orange  trees  so  briskly  ;  you  always  step 
so  quick.  Take  care,  don't  tread  on  the  hearth.  It  has 
been  painted  this  morning,  and  is  not  yet  dry.  There, 
you  have  left  a  track ;  it  is  too  late ;  but  old  bachelors 
never  know  what  to  do  with  themselves.  They  are  always 
in  the  way." 

"  Nay,  sister,  you  know  I  did  not  mean  to  do  it ;  I  was 
only  trying  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  the  orange  leaves. 
As  for  being  an  old  bachelor,  I  may  be  one,  to  be  sure ; 
but  you  know  it  would  not  be  prudent  for  me  to  be  other- 
wise." 

Before  I  go  on  with  the  conversation,  it  may  be  well  to 
introduce  the  readers  to  the  speakers,  as  well  as  to  some 
other  members  of  the  same  family,  who  will  be  hereafter 
mentioned.  Mrs.  Butler,  the  lady,  was  one  of  the  best 
wives,  best  mothers,  and  best  neighbors  in  the  world,  ac- 
cording to  oral  fame,  for  which  the  village  to  which  she 
belonged  was  notorious.  Her  house  was  the  mirror  of 
neatness  and  taste,  but  as  her  taste  was  kept  in  constant 
restraint  by  the  unrelaxing  parsimony  of  her  husband,  it 
was  truly  admirable  to  see  the  ingenuity  with  which  she 
would  make  the  "  worse  appear  the  better"  thing.  Their 
furniture  was  of  the  most  ordinary  kind,  but  no  parlor 
looked  more  enticingly  pretty  than  theirs  ;  she  always  had 
BO  many  tumblers  of  fresh  blooming  flowers  on  the  side- 
board, tables  and  mantel-piece,  such  luxuriant  branches  of 
evergreen  in  the  chimney,  and  festoons  of  oak-leaves  and 
woodbine  around  the  white-washed  walls.  No  one  could 
tell  what  kind  of  frame  the  old  looking-glass  had,  through 
the  neat  folds  of  the  starched  muslin  that  enveloped  it, 
and  no  one  would  have  imagined  that  the  bright  green 

(125) 


126         THE  PREMATURE  DECLARATION   OP  LOVE. 

baize,  that  almost  covered  the  carpet,  showing  only  a 
handsome  border,  concealed  the  old,  faded,  worn-out  relic 
of  a  prior  generation.  But  to  see  Mrs.  Butler  in  her 
pride,  you  must  follow  her  into  the  garden,  and  a  lovely 
garden  it  was.  The  wild-brier,  the  thorn,  and  the  thistle 
may  now  choke  the  sweet  blossoms  which  once  bloomed 
profusely  there,  and  the  kind,  active  hand  that  planted  and 
reared  them  be  cold  and  powerless,  but  at  the  time  which  I 
speak  it  presented  the  fairest  avenues  of  sweets  I  ever  beheld. 
Rich  exotics  and  tropical  plants  mingled  their  patrician 
odors  and  tints  with  the  less  valued  but  beauteous  offspring 
of  our  own  ruder  latitudes.  There  were  bowers  within 
bowers  ;  the  yellow  jassmine,  with  its  bright  golden  blos- 
soms and  deep,  shining,  slender  green  leaves  ;  the  grace- 
ful clematis  or  virgin's  bower,  with  its  clusters  of  purple, 
melting  into  the  softest  blue  ;  the  multiflora,  fairest,  most 
modest  of  vines  ;  the  coral  honeysuckle  hanging  its  rich 
petals,  as  if  of  ocean-birth,  amid  the  velvet  verdure  of  the 
wreathing  leaves  ;  the  magnificent  trumpet-flower,  looking 
like  the  very  coronet  of  victory  itself,  and  all  the  loving 
and  lovely  families  of  vines.  Then  there  were  tulips,  and 
ionquils,  and  narcissuses,  and  hyacinths,  and  violets,  and 
heart's-eases,  and  primroses,  and  snow-drops,  and  roses, 
and  rosemaries,  and  all  the  sweet-smelling  shrubs  in  the 
universe,  from  the  fragrant  clover  to  the  aromatic  cala- 
canthus.  Then  fruit-trees  and  bushes  of  every  descrip- 
tion, even  to  the  rare  pomegranate,  whose  scarlet  flowers 
glow  so  beautifully  through  the  brilliant  green  of  its 
foliage,  giving  promise  of  the  scarlet  and  orange-colored 
fruit  that  is  to  succeed  it.  But  there  is  no  end  to  the 
beauties  of  this  little  world  of  Flora.  I  believe  if  I  shonld 
write  for  a  week  without  cessation  I  could  not  enumerate 
half  its  wonders  or  excellencies.  So  great  was  its  fame, 
Mrs.  Butler  was  almost  obliged  to  live  in  it,  and  it  was  a 
pleasant  life  to  her  ;  whoever  wanted  herbs  for  medicinal 
beverage,  savory  and  thyme  for  broth,  sage  for  sausages, 
or  wormwood  for  bruises,  sent  to  Mrs.  Butler ;  whoever 
desired  a  bouquet  for  a  party,  or  flowers  to  ornament  a 
mantel-piece,  or  a  few  nice  figs  or  apricots  for  a  friend, 
sent  to  Mrs.  Butler ;  and  let  it  be  recorded  to  her  honor, % 
she  never  refused,  though  her  plants  and  flowers  were  dear 
to  her  as  her  heart's  blood.  But  we  have  kept  the  good 


THE  PREMATURE  DECLARATION  OF  LOVE.         127 

woman  so  long  in  her  garden  we  forgot  Brother  Tim, 
whom  we  left  in  the  dining-room,  at  a  most  respectful  dis- 
tance from  the   orange   bush,   and   looking   meekly  and 
mournfully  at  the  track  his  unfortunate  foot  had  made  on 
his  sister's  vermillion  hearth.     It  must  not  be  supposed, 
among  Mrs.  Butler's  almost  innumerable  excellencies,  she 
was  not  one  of  the  best  sister's  in  the  world.     The  very 
perfection  of  her  virtue  in  this  relation  rendered  her  con- 
stantly annoying  to  his  peace,  for  she  justly  considered 
ridicule  the  most  powerful  instrument  of  attack,  when  the 
party  in  question  is  of  a  timid  and  self-distrustful  charac- 
ter.    If  she  did  scold  him  for  his  gaucheries,  it  was  in  so 
good-natured  a  manner  it  passed  for  merely  raillery  with 
others,  though  he  always  answered  her  with  a  meekness 
and  solemnity  truly  diverting.     To  see  him  married  was 
the  darling  wish  of  her  heart.     She  had  a  perfect  horror 
of  old  bachelors.     The  comparisons   she   had  so  often 
heard  drawn  between  them  and  a  dry  stalk,  a  blasted  fig- 
tree,  or  a  blossomless,  fruitless  shrub,  were  associated  in 
her  mind  with  such  mournful  images,  she  was  determined, 
if  possible,  to  avert  such  a  misfortune  as  to  have  one  of 
these  useless  cumberers  of  God's  fair  earth,  entailed  upon 
her  otherwise  flourishing   family.     What   grievous   mis- 
takes good  people  sometimes  make,  out  of  the  very  abun- 
dance of  activity  of  their  benevolence.     A  cumberer  of 
the  earth ! — useless  I    Never  did  there  exist  a  more  oblig- 
ing, industrious,  busy  (there  is  a  great  difference  between 
industrious  and  busy — a  person  may  be  industrious  with- 
out our  being  conscious  of  it  at  the  moment,  whereas  a 
busy  one  never  escapes  observation.)     Mrs.  Butler  little 
knew  how  dependent  she  was  upon  the  kind  offices  and 
indefatigable  attentions  of  this  humble,  lonely  brother  of 
hers.     Who  turned  the  bobbin,  made  her  lace  frames, 
mended  her  broken  china,  and  brought  her  the  nearest 
wiJd  flowers  of.  the  forest  ?     Who  stuffed  the  blue-bird, 
and  little  wren,  and  solemn  owl  that  adorned  her  mantel- 
piece ?     Who  but  Brother  Tim?     Then  the  children—- 
what could  they  do  without  him  ?     He  made  their  whis- 
tles, kites,  and  bows  and  arrows,  dragged  them  in  a  little 
wagon  manufactured  by  his  own  hands,  made  images  of 
dog's  and  sheep's  heads  on  the  wall,  and  cried  ba-a  and 
bow-wow,  to  amuse  the  exacting  monkeys.     There  was 


128         THE  PREMATURE  DECLARATION  OP  LOVE. 

nothing  too  much  to  ask  of  his  inexhaustible  good-nature, 
nothing  too  much  for  it  to  grant ;  yet  such  is  the  per- 
verseness  and  ingratitude  of  our  natures,  his  own  sister, 
the  very  best  woman  in  the  village,  compared   him   to 
the  unprofitable  weed  that  gives  back  no  sweetness  to 
the  air,  in  return  for  its  genial  influence.    I  think  I  see 
him   before   me,  with  his   meek,  small   countenance,  his 
sleek,  sparge,  sandy  locks,  and   thin,  sharp   blue-tipped 
nose,  that    gave   an   inexpressible  air   of  forlornness  to 
his  face.     It  looked  as  if  it  were  ill  able  to  bear  alone 
the  bleak  winds  of  this  adverse  world,  and  had  already 
miserably  shrunk  from  the    contact — a  voice    seemed 
to   issue  from  its  very  tip — "  Oh  !   who   would   inhabit 
this  bleak  world   alone  ?"    Kind,  honest-hearted  Timo- 
thy Fuller — did  merit  meet  on  earth  its  just  reward,  did 
the  pure  in  heart  receive  in  this  world  the  exalted  rank 
they  take   in  the   beatitudes,  thou  wouldst  have   sat  in 
the  high  places  of  thy  country's  glory  ;  the  richest  sheaf 
in  the  harvest  of  moral  excellence,  to  which  inferior  ones 
should  bow  down,  as  in  Joseph's  ancient  dream.     Never 
was  guile  or  malice  found  on  thy  unoffending  lips ;  they 
dropped  the  honey  of  human  kindness  as  naturally  and 
freely  as  the  Arabian  tree  its  medicinal  gum.     But  I  grow 
poetical  in  thy  praises,  and  am  forgetting  other  important 
personages  in  the  drama  of  life,  in  which  thou  actedst  thy 
noble  part.     Mr.  Butler  could  never  be  overlooked  by  one 
who  loves  to  study  human  nature,  and  to  observe  the  va- 
rious aspects  the  "  mighty  mother"  assumes.     Mr.  Butler, 
the  merchant,  the  deacon,  the  sheriff,  the  man  of  dollars 
and  cents,  of  small  gains  and  great  savings,  the  cold,  blue 
worshiper  of  Mammon,  yet  walking  with  such  severe  cor- 
rectness none  would  dare  to  say  he  was  not  a  sober,  con- 
scientious, upright  Christian.     He  ground  the  poor  for 
the  last  cent  they  owed  him  ;  and  when,  with  a  pale  cheek 
and  quivering  lip,  and  long-drawn  sigh,  poverty  put  up 
the  empty  purse,  and  turned  away  from   the   merciless 
creditor,  Mr.  Butler  would   sigh  too,  and   compress  his 
narrow  lips — fit  opening  for  his  narrow  soul — and  say, 
"  It  is  hard,  to  be  sure,  to  part  with  one's  all ;  but  then  it 
is  a  debt,  and  my  family  must  be  supported  ;  every  body 
must  take  care  of  his  own ;"  and  the  next  Sunday  at 
church  he  would  sit  in  his  long,  sanctimonious,  dark  sur- 


THE   PREMATURE   DECLARATION   OP  LOVE.         129 

tont,  and  repeat  to  himself,  while  the  pious  minister  was 
breathing  forth  his  divine  aspirations,  "  I  thank  heaven  I 
am  not  as  other  men  are,  extortioners,"  &c.,  and  lifting 
up  his  hard  stony  eyes,  he  believed  all  the  worldly  sins 
of  the  week  effaced  by  the  exemplary  devotion  of  the  sev- 
enth day.  He  did  not  enter  into  his  wife's  views,  with 
respect  to  her  brother,  for  he  deemed  him  too  simple  to 
support  a  family  himself ;  and  that  he  would  consequently 
bring  an  additional  expense  upon  them.  Mrs.  Butler  was 
too  generous  and  uncalculating  to  reflect  upon  the  fu- 
ture where  her  own  interest  was  concerned,  but  she  re- 
spected, perhaps  I  ought  to  say,  feared,  her  husband's 
prejudices,  and  always  forebore  in  his  presence  to  assail 
poor  Tim  in  his  "vital,  vulnerable  part."  Her  good 
genius  was,  nevertheless,  constantly  at  work,  and  she  was 
determined  not  to  slacken  her  exertions,  till  she  had 
brought  about  a  matrimonial  engagement  between  her 
brother  and  Miss  Submit  Schoolcraft,  the  amiable  and 
unimpeachable  spinster  of  the  parish. 

I  was  going  to  describe  Miss  Submit  Schoolcraft  or  as 
her  friends  familiarly  called  her,  Miss  Mitty, — but  as  peo- 
ple are  best  known  by  their  manners  and  conversation,  and 
as  I  have  already  appropriated  considerable  time  to  the 
delineation  of  characters,  when  I  only  intended  to  speak 
of  their  actions,  I  will  introduce  her,  and  suffer  her  to 
ingratiate  herself  by  her  own  undescribed  attractions. 

"  Now  this  is  very  kind  of  you,  Miss  Mitty,  to  come  and 
see  me,  without  waiting  to  be  sent  for ;  take  off  your 
bonnet  and  sit  here  by  the  door,  where  it  is  cool,  and  you 
can  see  the  flowers.  Timothy,  give  my  feather  fan  to  Miss 
Mitty  ;  don't  you  see  how  warm  she  looks  ?  I  didn't  ask 
you  to  tread  on  my  foot  though,  but  old  bachelors  are 
always  in  the  way." 

"  Sister,  I  am  sure  I  didn't  mean  to  do  it,"  exclaimed 
the  blushing  Tim,  extending  the  fan  at  arm's  length  to 
Miss  Mitty,  who  sat  with  imperturbable  composure,  the 
warmth  of  the  season  glowing  on  a  cheek  which  always 
wore  the  dry,  unvarying  bloom  of  the  winter  apple. 

"  Well,   Miss   Mitty,"   continued   Mrs.  Butler,    "  what 

scheme  have  you  on  hand  for  the  good  of  others  ?     You 

are  always  going   about  seeking  out   the  sick  and  the 

afflicted ;  I  don't  know  what  we  could  do  without  you  in 

9 

V" 


130         THE  PREMATURE   DECLARATION   OP  LOVE. 

the   village.      Yon  must  not  think  of  getting  married, 
unless,  and  she  glanced  her  good-natured  eye  at  her  brother, 

"  unless  some  smart  deserving  bachelor hem — ." 

Miss  Mitty  put  her  smooth  cambric  handkerchief  to  her 
face,  and  said  she  was  very  glad  if  she  were  able  to  do 
any  good  in  the  world  ;  that  time  was  short,  and  life  uncer- 
tain, and  a  great  many  other  pious,  sensible  remarks, 
which  made  a  great  impression  on  the  amiable  mind  of 
Mrs.  Butler,  and  made  her  more  than  ever  anxious  to 
secure  so  exemplary  a  helpmeet  for  brother.  I  am  doing 
great  injustice  to  Miss  Mitty  not  to  describe  her  person. 
To  introduce  a  heroine  without  a  description  is  unpardon- 
able ;  I  acknowledge  my  error,  and  hasten  to  correct  it. 
Though  evidently  past  the  sunny  bloom  of  youth,  there 
was  an  air  of  freshness  and  vigor,  a  kind  of  evergreen 
verdure  about  her  exceedingly  becoming.  Her  complexion 
was  not  remarkable  for  its  delicacy,  but  at  a  little  distance, 
the  starch  or  powder,  with  which  she  perfectly  covered 
'her  face,  might  well  pass  for  the  lilies  of  nature.  Her 
hair  was  of  a  faded  flaxen,  and  combed  back  with  severe 
precision  from  her  brow,  corresponded  well  with  the  plain- 
ness and  neatness  of  a  dress  which  was  never  known  to  be 
in  disorder.  Altogether,  Miss  Mitty  was  a  very  comely 
and  personable  young  lady,  and  if  skillful  physiognomists 
conld  detect  a  certain  air  of  self-complacency  or  self-right- 
eousness in  her  countenance,  who  could  blame  her  ?  Was 
she  not  the  patroness  of  Sunday  Schools  and  Charity 
Schools,  the  disseminator  of  Tracts,  the  presenter  of  sub- 
scription papers,  the  almoner  of  others'  bounties,  the 
primum  mobile  of  the  whole  neighborhood  ?  She  had 
a  kind  of  moral  sagacity  in  finding  out  distressed  objects, 
that  was  unequalled.  She  knew  the  history  of  every  man, 
woman  and  child,  within  a  dozen  miles  of  the  church. 
Did  she  hear  of  an  intemperate  man,  who  wasted  his  sub- 
stance in  riotous  living,  and  impoverished  the  wife  and 
children,  he  was  bound  to  support,  she  neither  slumbered 
nor  slept,  till  she  had  made  a  visit  to  his  house,  and  ex- 
horted and  sermonized  him  upon  his  neglected  duties,  and 
inevitable  ruin.  Did  she  hear  of  an  idle,  an  improvident, 
or  a  slatternly  woman,  she  immediately  selected  an  appro- 
priate Tract,  begged  for  a  comb  and  hair-brush,  and  cake 
of  castile  soap,  and  presented  them  to  the  delinquent 


THE  PREMATURE   DECLARATION   OP   LOVE.          131 

sister,  with  fitting  words  of  counsel  and  warning.  In 
short,  she  was  a  female  St.  Paul — "in  season  and  out  of 
season" — the  unslumbering  guardian  of  the  morals  and  reli- 
gion of  the  village  of  H .  But  somehow  or  other,  her 

unceasing  exertions  were  not  crowned  with  the  success 
they  merited.  The  drunkard  resumed  his  burning  draught, 
and  breathed  out  a  deeper  curse  against  "preachers  in 
bonnets,  and  idle"  busybodies."  The  slattern  cast  the  un- 
appreciated gifts  aside,  and  "  wished  old  maids  would  not 
be  so  meddlesome,  and  keep  their  advice  till  wanted  or 
asked."  This  was  all  very  ungrateful,  but  human  nature 
is  made  up  of  strange  inconsistencies.  Perhaps  it  may  be 
that  charity,  like  religion,  must  be  breathed  in  the  still, 
small  voice,  that  its  influence  must  be  as  soft  and  unosten- 
tatious as  the  snow  that  falls  unheard  and  almost  unseen, 
upon  its  flaky  sisters  of  the  clouds,  and  then,  like  that 
gentle  snow,  when  melted  by  the  returning  sun,  it  will  sink, 
and  moisten,  and  fertilize,  till  moral  flowers  spring  forth 
in  the  spring-time  of  the  heart.  I  will  not  now  pause  to 
penetrate  into  the  mysteries  of  metaphysics,  but  Miss 
Mitty  was  certainly  often  called  "officious  and  trouble- 
some" when  her  back  was  turned,  by  the  objects  of  her 
tender  mercies,  while  more  discerning  individuals,  like  Mrs. 
Butler,  inhaled  with  delight  the  odor  of  her  sanctity,  and 
marveled  at  her  labors  of  love. 

An  hour  passed  away  in  edifying  conversation  between 
Mrs.  Butler  and  her  friend,  with  an  occasional  remark  from 
Timothy,  to  which  Miss  Mitty  listened  with  the  most  flat- 
tering attention,  when  supper  was  announced,  and  Mr. 
Butler,  having  transacted  the  business  of  the  day,  returned 
to  take  his  accustomed  seat  at  his  wife's  hospitable  board. 
Yes,  in  spite  of  himself  it  was  hospitable,  and  all  who 
shared  it  felt  the  influence  of  her  spirit.  Mr.  Butler's 
presence,  however,  was  always  a  couiiteracter  :  to  look 
upon  him  reminded  one  of  a  north-east  storm.  He  never 
failed  at  table  to  discourse  upon  the  virtues  of  temperance 
and  the  sin  of  gluttony  and  excess,  particularly  if  he  had 
any  guests.  Miss  Mitty  was  always  blest  with  a  charm- 
ing appetite,  though  she  ate  slowly,  and  took  very  small 
pieces  at  a  time.  Mr.  Butler  must  have  groaned  in  spirit 
at  the  innumerable  small  pieces  that  were  slid  in  slow, 
regular  progression  on  her  plate.  If  he  could  have  in- 


132        THE   PREMATURE   DECLARATION   OP  LOVE 

vented  a  method  by  which  people  could  live  without  eat- 
ing, and  consequently  without  much  expense,  he  would 
have  been  the  happiest  man  in  the  world.  It  was  several 
evenings  after  this  Mrs.  Butler  told  her  brother,  he  had 
an  opportunity  offered  him  of  showing  his  kindness,  good- 
ness, and  zeal  ;  that  Miss  Mitty,  who  had  been  an  inde- 
fatigable instrument  in  promoting  the  Sunday-school  every 
Sunday  afternoon,  and  who  had  already  got  it  in  a  most 
prosperous  way,  was  anxiously  in  search  of  a  person  who 
would  open  the  school  in  a  proper  manner,  with  prayer 
and  hymning.  Mrs.  Butler  added — (I  am  afraid  it  was  a 
spontaneous  suggestion  of  her  own) — that  Miss  Mitty 
knew  of  no  one  so  well  calculated  as  himself  for  that  office, 
and  that  she  would  have  made  a  personal  application,  had 
not  modesty  and  propriety,  &c.,  prevented  her.  Timothy 
blushed  scarlet  deep  at  the  proposition,  stammered  out 
something  about  incapacity  and  prudence,  got  up  and 
walked  toward  the  door,  casting  a  furtive  glance  at  the 
looking-glass,  thinking  it  possible  Miss  Mitty  had  taken 
a  fancy  to  the  cut  of  his  face,  and  doing  homage  in  his 
heart  to  her  judgment  and  taste.  Far  be  it  from  me  to 
throw  a  shadow  of  ridicule  upon  these  holy  institutions 
which  have  been  and  continue  to  be  the  blessing  of  the 
land,  or  to  speak  lightly  of  that  spirit  of  active  benevo- 
lence and  piety  which,  in  imitation  of  man's  divine  exem- 
plar, goes  about  doing  good.  But  in  sketching  from  real 
life  we  must  take  the  evil  with  the  good,  the  tares  with  the 
wheat.  If  Miss  Mitty's  high  sense  of  duty  and  conscien- 
tious desire  to  be  useful,  was  marred  in  its  exercise  by  too 
much  ostentation,  and  parade,  and  bustle,  it  surely  is  not 
my  fault ;  I  would  not  add  one  shade  the  more  or  one  ray 
the  less.  I  would  portray  Miss  Mitty  just  as  she  is,  or 
was,  considering  her  perfect  in  her  kind  ;  and  as  for  Timo- 
thy Fuller,  my  heart  warms  within  me  at  the  very  recol- 
lection of  his  simple,  confiding  excellence.  Behold  him 
on  the  following  Sabbath,  in  obedience  to  his  sister's 
admonitions,  winding  his  quiet  way  through  the  sweet, 
shaded  path  that  led  to  the  village  church.  It  is  a  fair, 
warm,  blue-skyed,  soft-aired  summer  day.  The  birds  sing 
their  melodious  hallelujahs  amid  the  cool  green  boughs, 
and  all  nature  reflects  in  peaceful  loveliness  the  glorious 
smile  of  its  Creator.  Timothy  feels  the  gracious  influ- 


THE  PREMATURE  DECLARATION   OF  LOVE.         133 

ences  around  him.  He  is  grateful  for  his  being,  grateful 
for  his  capacities  for  gratitude,  and  his  opportunities  for 
serving  his  great  Task-master.  The  incense  that  arises 
from  his  heart  is  unadulterated  with  one  particle  of  envy 
or  vain-glory.  He  is  dressed  with  unusual  care,  but  that 
is  rather  his  sister's  doing  than  his  own,  who  laid  his 
buffest  vest  and  whitest  cravat  on  the  toilet  of  his  cham- 
ber, and  ordered  the  servant  to  polish  his  boots  till  they 
resembled  the  brightest  japan.  Some  one  said  they  saw 
him  looking  at  himself  in  one  of  his  brass  buttons,  and 
smooth  his  hair  over  his  forehead,  before  entering  the 
door  of  the  church,  but  I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  it ;  he 
was  no  coxcomb. 

The  children  were  all  arranged  in  the  nicest  order,  and 
Miss  Mitty  was  moving  from  class  to  class,  as  if  she  had 
the  power  of  ubiquity.  As  soon  as  he  entered  she  became 
stationary,  and  he  felt  that  his  presence  was  acknowledged. 
There  was  a  half  conscious,  odd  kind  of  expression  in  her 
countenance,  followed  by  a  look  of  deeper  gravity,  upon 
observing  a  sancy  smile  upon  the  lips  of  some  of  the 
urchins.  Timothy  saw  the  smile,  and  his  bosom  quaked  j 
the  horror  of  being  laughed  at,  which  every  bashful  person 
has  experienced,  came  over  him  as  a  thick  darkness.  He 
had  not  realized  before  the  magnitude  of  the  office.  From 
earliest  childhood  he  had  been  accustomed  to  offer  up  his 
morning  and  evening  sacrifices  of  prayer  and  praise,  and 
to  make  melody  with  his  lips  unto  Heaven.  It  had  seemed 
to  him  in  perspective  an  easy  task  to  lift  up  his  voice 
before  untaught  and  uncriticising  children,  and  a  devout 
and  kind-judging  woman.  But  it  was  in  vain  to  think 
of  retracting,  the  ordeal  must  be  past ;  so,  opening  his 
trembling  lips,  he  began  that  sublime  and  simple  petition, 
the  first  that  infant  innocence  is  taught  to  utter — "  Our 
Father,  who  art  in  heaven."  There  seemed  to  be  a  magic 
in  the  sentence  ;  his  voice  grew  steady,  and  lifted  by  the 
real  fervor  of  his  feelings,  he  forgot  himself  and  his  audi- 
tors, and  when  he  had  concluded,  the  serious  brows  of  the 
children  bore  witness  to  the  hallowed  influence  of  true 
and  unaffected  piety.  Timothy  rejoiced  in  spirit  that 
what  he  had  commenced  so  fearfully  had  terminated  so 
well.  Gathering  courage  from  success,  he  approached 
within  four  yards  of  Miss  Mitty,  and  offered,  with  many 


134         THE  PREMATURE   DECLARATION   OP  LOVE. 

hems  and  coughs,  if  it  would  not  be  considered  an  intru- 
sion, and  if  it  was  thought  he  had  the  proper  qualification, 
to  assist  her  in  taking  a  class.  Miss  Mitty  looked  as  if 
she  would  have  blushed  if  the  steady  bloom  of  her  cheek 
had  admitted.  She  certainly  looked  pleased,  said  every 
thing  that  was  proper  on  such  an  occasion,  acknowledged 
that  she  had  long  wished  for  a  fellow-laborer,  and  admit- 
ted it  as  the  omen  of  better  things.  Never  was  Timothy 
better  satisfied  with  the  world  in  which  he  lived,  than  when 
the  duties  of  the  day  being  ended,  he  found  himself  walk- 
ing side  by  side  with  Miss  Mitty,  through  the  same  beau- 
tiful path,  actually  carrying  her  basket  of  books,  though 
a  cold  sweat  covered  his  forehead  at  his  own  presumption, 
when  he  proposed  to  relieve  her  of  her  burden.  A  rich 
crimson  was  beginning  to  mantle  the  blue  of  the  western 
horizon  ;  the  air  breathed  softer  and  balmier.  Timothy 
looked  at  the  sky,  at  the  trees,  and  the  ground.  His  soul 
expanded  at  the  magnificence  of  the  scene.  He  felt  called 
upon  to  express  his  emotions,  but  knew  not  how  to  em- 
body them. 

"Miss  Mitty,"  at  length  said  he,  "hem — hem — Miss 
Mitty,  is  it  not  a  very  pretty  evening  ?" 

"Very  pretty,  indeed ;  I  think  it  grows  a  little  cooler." 

"I  don't  know;  I  haven't  observed  any  clouds." 

Miss  Mitty  raised  her  eyes  as  she  spoke  toward  the 
heavens,  and  as  she  brought  them  down  to  earth,  she  hap- 
pened to  rest  them  on  Timothy,  who,  by  a  singular  coin- 
cidence, happened  to  be  looking  at  her.  The  glance  was 
very  kind  and  approving,  and  might  have  encouraged  a 
more  bashful  man. 

"What  was  it  you  said,  ma'am  ?" 

"Sir!" 

"  I  beg  pardon  ;  I  thought  you  were  going  to  say 
something." 

"  No,  sir—" 

A  dead  pause  succeeded,  and  poor  Timothy  could  not 
think  of  any  thing  else  to  say.  They  were  very  near  home  ; 
a  beautiful  rose-bush  grew  close  to  the  path,  and  spread 
out  its  fair  blossoms  so  invitingly,  Timothy  could  not  help 
plucking  one. 

"  Do  you  like  roses,  Miss  Mitty  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  very  much,  indeed." 


THE   PREMATURE  DECLARATION   OF  LOVE.         135 

"  Would  you — like  this  rose — Miss  Mitty  ?" 
This  was  uttered  with  a  dreadful  effort,  and  the  rose 
trembled  in  his  hand,  as  if  shaken  by  the  evening  breeze. 
The  lady  took  it  with  a  gracious  smile,  touched  it  to  her 
nostril,  then  put  it  in  her  belt  on  the  left  side.  What 
apparently  trifling  things  change  the  color  of  one's  des- 
tiny !  A  solitary  grain  of  musk  will  perfume  a  room  for 
many  years,  a  single  flower  given  and  taken  may  impart 
fragrance  to  a  whole  existence.  This  was  the  first  offer- 
ing Timothy  had  ever  made  to  any  woman,  his  sister 
excepted,  and  the  recollection  of  his  courage  made  him 
feel  dizzy  when  he  was  alone. 

From  that  memorable  day  the  duties  of  the  Sunday- 
school  were  never  neglected.  Every  Sunday  saw  them 
associated  in  the  interesting  task  of  instruction  and  exhort- 
ation, and  so  admirably  did  his  meekness  and  humility 
temper  Miss  Mitty's  parading  virtues,  the  school  was 
never  known  to  be  under  such  happy  auspices.  Every 
Sunday  during  the  season  of  flowers  was  a  rose  timidly 
offered  and  kindly  received,  but  matters  went  no  further. 
In  vain  Mrs.  Butler  rallied  and  scolded  him  for  being  an 
old  bachelor ;  he  always  answered,  "  He  did  not  think  it 
prudent  to  be  otherwise."  There  was  one  auspicious 
omen,  however ;  he  now  invariably  ended  the  sentence 
with  a  sigh,  and  was  often  observed  to  lean  his  head  on  his 
hand  and  look  abstractedly  on  the  wall.  To  judge  truly 
of  a  man's  thoughts  we  must  follow  him  in  the  solitude 
of  his  own  room,  and  such  a  room  as  Timothy's  was  well 
worth  being  admitted  into.  It  had  once  been  an  office, 
and  was  attached  to  Mr.  Butler's  store,  where  he  some- 
times officiated  as  merchant  pro  tern.  It  was  a  miniature 
gallery  of  the  fine  arts,  a  miniature  menagerie,  aviary ;  a 
a  little  world  displayed.  There  were  pictures  of  his  own 
painting,  (for  Timothy  was  an  artist  of  the  most  original 
kind,  as  every  one  who  ever  saw  his  paintings  must  ac- 
knowledge,) adorning  the  walls — stuffed  birds  and  living 
birds  in  cages — the  prettiest  little  gray  and  white  kitten 
with  a  cork  tied  to  its  tail ;  a  large  tortoise-shell  cat ; 
several  snakes  in  green  glass  bottles  ;  a  tame  squirrel  • 
coral  sea-fans  and  some  pieces  of  a  petrified  wig ;  all  tne 
wonders  of  earth,  air  and  sea  condensed  and  harmonized. 
To  preserve  and  cherish  these  treasures,  and  add  to  their 


136         THE  PREMATURE  DECLARATION   OF  LOVE. 

number  was  one  of  the  great  objects  of  Timothy's  exist- 
ence, or  rather  had  been,  for  his  whole  soul  was  no  longer 
absorbed  in  them.  There  was  something  wanting,  which 
he  had  never  been  conscious  of  before.  The  plumage  of 
his  birds  was  as  soft  and  bright,  but  it  no  longer  charmed 
his  eye  or  their  warbling  his  ear.  His  little  kitten  frisked 
and  frolicked  as  gracefully,  and  his  squirrel  held  a  nut 
in  his  paws  as  cunningly  as  ever — they  did  not  divert  him 
as  they  were  wont  to  do.  "  What  can  be  the  matter  with 
me  ?"  said  he  one  day  to  himself,  as  he  sat  in  the  midst  of 
his  curiosities  and  pets.  "  There  is  nothing  I  can  do  to 
please  myself.  I  can't  paint  any  thing  striking  or  natural ; 
my  snakes  don't  look  as  handsome  as  they  used  to ;  my 
cat  don't  purr  half  as  pretty ;  I'm  tired  of  all  my  pets  ;  I 
must  get  a  new  one."  Just  at  that  moment  a  figure  glided 
by  the  window,  whose  discreet  motions  and  measured  step 
were  not  to  be  mistaken.  The  pulsations  of  his  heart  were 
mysteriously  quickened.  He  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  wistfully  after  her.  She  was  dressed  in  white, 
and  looked  remarkably  nice  and  airy.  "  Ah  !"  exclaimed 
he,  continuing  his  soliloquy,  "  I  think  I  know  what  is  the 
matter ;  I  believe  it  is  Miss  Mitty  after  all ;  what  an  im- 
prudent man  I  am  !"  and  Timothy  leaned  his  head  upon 
the  window  frame  with  a  penitential  sigh.  "  It  was  sister 
that  put  all  this  into  my  head  ;  1  never  should  have 
thought  of  it  myself;  I  wonder  if  she  feels  as  I  do  1" 
There  was  a  charm  in  this  speculation  which  he  found 
irresistible.  He  recalled  her  kind  looks,  her  invitation  to 
him  to  officiate  in  so  responsible  an  office,  her  frequent 
visits  to  his  sisters,  till  he  convinced  himself  they  were 
both  indulging  in  very  tender  sentiments,  which  prudence 
expressly  forbade ;  he  had  no  fortune,  and  how  could  he 
marry  ?  He  never  thought  of  the  possibility  of  making 
one  by  his  own  exertions.  His  humility  would  have 
startled  at  such  a  suggestion.  He  had  a  wealthy  uncle 
who  lived  in  a  neighboring  State,  who  had  no  children  of 
his  own,  whom  he  thought  it  not  impossible  would  leave 
him  a  handsome  legacy  ;  but  this  uucle  was  in  the  prime 
of  life,  vigorous  and  robust,  who  probably  thought  as 
little  of  dying  as  Timothy  himself.  The  only  course  which 
he  deemed  it  prudent  to  pursue,  was  to  conceal  his  grow- 
ing tenderness  from  the  object  who  inspired  it,  and  going 


THE  PREMATURE  DECLARATION  OP  LOVE.          137 

steadily  forward  in  the  straight  line  of  duty,  reconcile  him- 
self as  much  as  possible  to  his  solitary  existence.  But 
for  the  first  time  iu  his  life,  he  experienced  a  conflict  be- 
tween inclination  and  principle.  It  was  a  hard  trial  to 
his  resignation.  The  distressed  expression  of  his  face 
was  noticed  that  night  at  table  by  Mr.  Butler,  who  sel- 
dom noticed  any  thing  but  the  quantity  of  food  de- 
voured. 

"Timothy,"  said  he,  "what  are  you  thinking  of?  You 
have  been  looking  into  the  salt-cellar  for  ten  minutes 
steadily.  Do  you  see  any  motes  in  it  ?  I  hope  I  have 
not  been  cheated  in  it :  I  paid  a  high  price  for  it,  to  be 
sure." 

"  Oh  !  never  mind  the  salt,"  interrupted  his  considerate 
wife,  "  he  does  not  feel  very  well.  Here,  Tim,  drink  some 
of  this  cool  butter-milk;  it  will  do  you  good." 

"Thank  you,  sister,  I  do  not  feel  quite  well  to-night." 

He  blessed  her  in  silence  for  not  calling  him  an  old 
bachelor,  and  poured  the  buttermilk  unconsciously  into 
his  coffee. 

"I  wish  Miss  Mitty  were  here,"  exclaimed  Joseph  But- 
ler, the  eldest  son  of  Mr.  Butler,  a  mischievous  youth  of  six- 
teen, with  rosy  cheeks  and  black  curling  locks,  the  idol  of 
his  mother,  the  torment  of  the  household,  the  dread  of  his 
uncle  ;  "  I  wish  Miss  Mitty  Schoolcraft  were  here ;  don't 
you,  uncle  ?" 

"Phew!"  said  Mr.  Butler,  turning  up  his  long  nose, 
"  let  Miss  Mitty  stay  at  home ;  she  has  too  large  an. 
appetite  to  please  me ;  her  small  pieces  amount  to  a 
respectable  quantity,  to  be  sure  they  do." 

Where  is  the  lover  who  can  hear  a  reflection  upon  the 
beloved  object,  without  an  indignant  glow?  Timothy's 
blood  rose,  and  miraculous  as  it  may  seem,  he  dared  to 
vindicate  her. 

"  I  think,"  he  stammered  forth,  "  I  think  Miss  Mitty 
shows  her  discretion  in  eating  slowly  ;  I  have  heard  Dr. 
Philler  say,  it  was  not  prudent  to  swallow  too  fast." 

"Miss  Mitty  is  indeed  a  model  of  prudence,"  said  Mrs. 
Butler,  "in  everything;  I  wish  all  the  young  women  of 
the  present  generation  were  like  her ;  she  will  make  an 
admirable  wife,  and  he  will  be  a  happy  man  that  gets 
her." 


138         THE  PREMATURE  DECLARATION  OP  LOVE. 

Mrs.  Butler  had  never  ventured  to  say  so  much  before 
her  husband,  but  she  was  soon  silenced. 

"Mrs.  Butler,"  cried  he,  in  a  solemn  tone,  laying  down 
his  knife  and  fork,  "you  had  better  be  done  with  your 
nonsense;  I  really  believe  you  have  been  putting  some  of 
your  ridiculous  conceits  in  Tim's  head ;  a  pretty  husband 
he  would  make,  to  be  sure — with  nothing  hut  his  birds, 
and  cats,  and  snakes,  to  support  a  wife  and  family." 

"I  don't  think  of  such  a  thing  as  being  married,  Mr. 
Butler,"  said  Timothy,  with  a  dignity  never  assumed  be- 
fore, "  I  know  it  would  be  very  imprudent ;  if  I  got  a 
legacy  from  my  uncle,  it  would  alter  the  case ;  but  that  is 
very  uncertain,  indeed." 

A  sigh  which  might  have  softened  a  heart  of  stone, 
concluded  this  speech,  but  it  made  no  visible  impression 
on  the  indurated  bosom  of  Mr.  Butler.  Joe  Butler  was 
observed  to  be  unusually  mischievous  that  evening,  (after 
his  father  had  left  the  house,)  overturned  every  thing  that 
came  in  his  way,  and  shook  his  black  curls  as  if  brooding 
over  something  of  vast  import. 

Things  remained  in  stalu  quo  for  two  or  three  months. 
Miss  Mitty  went  to  visit  an  aunt  about  thirty  miles  dis- 
tant, and  the  operations  of  the  Sunday  School  were  sus- 
pended. The  winter,  short  and  mild  in  that  genial 
clime,  came  and  melted  into  the  blossoms  of  an  early 
spring.  The  cheek  of  Timothy  gave  evident  indications 
of  the  wasting  influence  of  hidden  passion.  It  assumed  a 
kind  of  russet  hue,  while  his  thin  nose  looked  still  thinner, 
and  wore,  if  possible,  a  bluer  tint.  His  kind  sister  made 
him  drink  copiously  of  rue  and  wormwood  tea,  to  give 
him  a  healthy  appetite,  urged  him  to  ride  on  horseback 
before  breakfast,  and  made  a  pillow  of  hops  to  call  back 
the  vagrant  slumbers  to  his  restless  couch.  But  "  neither 
poppy  nor  mandragora  could  ever  medicine  him  to  the 
sweet  sleep"  he  was  wont  to  enjoy.  Mrs.  Butler  was  a 
woman  of  very  little  sentiment,  and  never  dreamed  that 
she  had  herself  been  the  innocent  cause  of  the  malady  she 
was  taking  such  ineffectual  means  to  cure.  Concerned  as 
she  felt  for  him,  she  could  not  help  telling  him  "  it  was 
nothing  but  the  hypo,  or  the  megrims,  for  old  bachelors 
always  were  troubled  with  them." 

It  was  a  fine  morning  on  the  first  of  April,  all  smiles, 


THE  PREMATUKE   DECLARATION  OF  LOVE.         139 

no  tears :  they  had  all  been  kissed  away  by  the  snn.  Mrs. 
Butler  was  in  her  garden,  a  basket  of  flower-seeds  in  her 
hand,  giving  directions  to  a  man,  who  was  laying  out  the 
beds  in  the  form  of  hearts  and  diamonds,  and  setting  box 
in  every  corner.  She  was  obliged  to  stop  every  now  and 
then  to  scold  her  son  Joe,  who  was  jumping  into  the  midst 
of  the  moist  beds,  overturning  the  flower-seeds,  carrying 
off  the  gardener's  tools,  and  doing  every  thing  in  the 
world  he  ought  not  to  do.  At  last  seeing  his  uncle 
approaching,  he  climbed  up  a  peach-tree,  and  sat  em- 
bosomed in  the  leaves,  as  quiet  as  the  maternal  bird  in  its 
nest. 

"  Brother  Tim,  you  are  the  very  man  I  want.  Just 
run  over  to  Mrs.  Tiluer's  and  ask  her  for  some  slips  of  that 
scarlet  geranium  of  hers.  It  is  such  a  beautiful  morning 
for  gardening — you  will  see  Miss  Mitty,  too,  for  she  came 
back  last  night." 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  oblige  you,  sister,"  answered 
Timothy,  with  deep  solemnity,  lifting  at  the  same  time  his 
handkerchief  to  his  eyes,  "  but  I  am  called  to  attend  to 
matters  of  more  importance  ;  something  very  unexpected 
indeed.  I  must  start  immediately  on  a  long  journey." 

"  A  long  journey  !  why,  the  man  is  crazy.  You  were 
never  ten  miles  from  home  in  your  life." 

"  Read  that,  sister,"  said  he,  putting  a  letter  in  her 
hand,  "  you  will  see  it  is  no  joking  matter." 

Airs.  Butler  opened  her  eyes  as  wide  as  a  morning-glory, 
while  she  perused  the  following  letter  : — 

,  March  3d, . 

DEAR  SIR  : 

As  the  administrator  of  your  late  uncle's  estate,  I  am 
authorized  to  address  you.  By  his  sudden  and  lamented 
death  you  are  at  once  a  loser  and  a  gainer.  You  have 
lost  a  worthy  and  generous  uncle,  and  gained  a  large  and 
nnincumbered  fortune.  Your  presence  here  will  be  imme- 
diately required,  and  I  trust  you  will  start  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible after  the  receipt  of  this. 

Yours,  with  much  respect,  &c. 

The  tears  dropped  from  Mrs.  Butler's  eyes  before  she 


140         THE   PREMATURE  DECLARATION   OP  LOVE. 

finished  the  epistle.  She  loved  her  uncle  very  much,  and 
was  grieved  and  shocked  at  his  unexpected  death.  No 
feeling  of  regret  entered  her  disinterested  mind,  that  she 
was  omitted  in  the  will ;  she  rejoiced  at  her  brother's 
prosperity  in  the  midst  of  her  mourning. 

"  Well,  Timothy,  since  it  has  pleased  Heaven  to  take 
away  our  dear  uncle,  I  am  glad  with  all  my  heart  that  he 
has  seen  fit  to  make  you  his  heir.  I  am  sure  you  will 
make  a  good  use  of  it." 

"  I  will  try  to  be  a  prudent  steward,"  was  the  meek 
reply  "  But  please,  sister,  to  see  that  my  best  shirts  and 
cravats  are  brought  in  from  the  wash,  and  sew  that  button 
on  my  buff  waistcoat." 

Mrs.  Butler  promised  to  have  every  thing  in  readiness, 
and  leaving  her  beloved  plants,  accompanied  her  brother 
to  the  house.  By  one  of  those  singular  coincidences, 
which  destiny  loves  to  bring  about,  who  should  be  seen 
walking  through  the  gate  at  that  moment,  but  Miss  Sub- 
mit Schoolcraft,  coming  to  pay  the  morning  respects  to 
her  dear  friend  Mrs.  Butler,  after  an  absence  of  many 
weeks. 

"  I  declare,"  said  Mrs.  Butler,  "if  there  isn't  Miss  Mitty ! 
I  am  so  glad  she  is  come." 

"  Sister,"  said  Timothy,  "if  you  think  it  would-  be  pru- 
dent, I  should — should  like  to  speak  a  few  words  to  Miss 
Mitty  before  I  start — I  have  something — particular,  hem 
— perhaps — you  know  what  I  mean." 

"  Oh !  yes  indeed  that's  right ;  speak  like  a  man. 
You've  a  right  to  hold  up  your  head  now." 

The  lady  in  question  was  now  within  speaking  distance, 
and  the  ceremonies  of  meeting  passed.  The  beating  of 
Timothy's  heart  sounded  in  his  own  ears  like  the  tramp- 
ling of  horses  feet  on  frozen  ground.  The  only  obstacle 
to  the  union  for  which  he  had  long  secretly  panted  was 
now  removed,  and  he  found  himself  suddenly  in  the  pre- 
sence of  the  very  and  only  woman  who  had  ever  awakened 
a  sentiment  of  love  in  his  unpolluted  bosom.  Before  he 
had  recovered  from  the  stunning  effect  of  such  unexpected 
circumstances,  he  was  seated  alone  with  Miss  Mitty  in  the 
front  parlor,  for  Mrs.  Butler  kindly  recollected  a  thousand 
things  to  do,  that  required  her  presence  elsewhere.  She 


THE  PREMATURE  DECLARATION   OP   LOVE.         141 

had  taken  her  seat  by  an  open  window,  in  the  shade  of  a 
lilac  bush  in  full  bloom  ;  a  monthly  rose,  with  a  single 
flower,  blushing  on  its  stalk,  stood  on  the  window-frame. 
Timothy,  who  sat  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  looked 
sideways  toward  the  object  of  his  attraction,  and  thought 
he  had  never  seen  her  look  so  comely.  Her  ruffles  were 
plaited  so  nicely,  her  hair  was  combed  so  smoothly,  the 
folds  of  her  neckerchief  were  so  exact.  Timothy  sat  with 
his  feet  on  the  rounds  of  the  chair,  and  his  hands  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket ;  he  felt  glued  to  the  spot — his  tongue 
felt  glued  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth. 

At  last  Miss  Mitty  spoke  ;  a  woman  is  always  the  first 
to  break  such  an  awkward  silence. 

"  Have  you  enjoyed  your  health,  Mr.  Fuller,  since  I  saw 
you  last?" 

"  Ah  !  Miss  Mitty,  I  have  not  been  quite  well,  but  I 
feel  some  better  now." 

He  hitched  bis  chair  two  steps  nearer. 

"  Have  you  been  well,  Miss  Mitty,  you  look  charm- 
ingly." 

"  My  health  has  been  excellent,  thanks  to  Provi- 
dence." 

Every  word  that  was  uttered  gave  Timothy  confidence 
to  hitch  a  little  nearer,  till  at  last  he  got  within  the  shade 
of  the  lilac  tree. 

"  Miss  Mitty,  I  have  something  very  particular  to  say 
— if  I  may  be  so  bold — would  you  be  kind  enough  to  read 
that  letter  ?" 

It  was  not  without  a  great  many  coughs,  and  hems,  and 
stammerings,  he  said  all  this.  Having  got  this  far  he 
wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  brow  with  his  red  silk 
handkerchief,  fanned  himself  with  its  folds,  looking  steadily 
upon  the  green  baize,  till  she  folded  up  carefully  the  im- 
portant document.  She  returned  it,  making  a  sensible 
remark  upon  the  vanity  of  life,  and  the  duty  of  resigna- 
tion ;  and  Timothy,  who  hoped  the  letter  would  break  the 
ice,  found  he  must  make  a  desperate  effort  and  break  it 
himself.  He  looked  round  in  a  sort  of  despair,  and  his 
eye  rested  on  that  single  rose,  so  sweet  and  fair.  He  re- 
membered the  flowers  he  had  formerly  presented ;  and 
breaking  it  from  the  stem,  with  a  spontaneous  burst  of 


142         THE   PREMATURE   DECLARATION  OP  LOVE. 

nature  and  feeling,  exclaimed,  "  Mi — Miss  Mitty,  do  you 
remember  the  first  rose  I  gave  you  ?" 

He  would  have  given  all  the  world  to  have  read  his 
doom  in  her  countenance,  but  it  was  perfectly  opaque  in 
its  fresh  composure.  He  thought  she  smiled  as  she  gave 
a  monosyllable  affirmative,  but  she  held  the  rose  to  her 
mouth  and  he  could  not  be  quite  certain. 

"  Sister  thinks,"  continued  he,  emboldened  by  his  own 
exertions,  "  I  had  better  think  of  getting  married  :  a  pru- 
dent wife  must  be  a  great  blessing."  - 

"  So  must  a  good  husband  be  ;"  answered  she,  looking 
modestly  down,  and  Timothy  felt  his  hopes  elevated  almost 
to  the  summit  of  ecstasy.  He  drew  his  chair  a  little 
nearer,  and  she  did  not  retreat. 

"  Sister  says,  a  good  wife  makes  a  good  husband ;  if 
you  will  take  me,  Miss  Mitty,  I  will  promise  to  be  the  best 
husband  in  the  world." 

She  did  not  make  an  immediate  reply,  but  there  was 
something  so  encouraging  in  her  glance  and  deportment, 
something  so  ominous  of  a  kind  reply  in  the  manner  in 
which  she  cleared  her  throat  of  a  sudden  huskiness  before 
beginning  to  speak,  Timothy  felt  as  if  he  were  reaching 
the  happiest  moment  of  his  existence.  He  stooped  for- 
ward, and  ventured  to  take  the  hand  nearest  him,  which 
still  held  the  proffered  and  accepted  rose;  a  gentle 
pressure  assured  him  that  his  presumption  was  par- 
doned and  his  hopes  confirmed.  He  recollected  having 
heard  his  sister  tell  how  Mr.  Butler  kissed  her  hand  when 
she  consented  to  marry  him,  and  perfect  novice  as  he  was 
in  the  art  of  courtship,  he  blessed  his  memory  for  assisting 
him  in  this  most  interesting  moment  of  his  life.  He  bont 
his  head  lower  and  lower,  his  lip  was  just  within  reach  of 
a  hand  which  never  before  had  received  such  devoted 
homage,  when  his  body  being  too  entirely  on  the  edge  of 
the  chair  to  keep  the  centre  of  gravity,  and  being  unac- 
customed to  such  a  position,  lost  its  equilibrium,  and  poor 
Timothy  kissed  the  baize  instead  of  Miss  Mitty's  hand, 
with  a  suddenness  and  fervor  that  completely  stunned 
him. 

At  this  awful  moment,  a  loud  shout  was  heard  from 
behind  the  lilac  bush,  and  the  black  curls  of  Joe  Butler 
were  distinctly  seen  through  the  boughs.  In  every  disaster 


THE   PREMATURE   DECLARATION  OF  LOVE.         143 

there  is  some  alleviating  circumstance.  Miss  Mitty  had  a 
pleasure  never  before  experienced,  of  seeing  a  lover  prone 
at  her  feet ;  and  however  involuntary  the  prostration,  it 
was  flattering  to  her  vanity.  I  suppose  she  must  have  a 
little  vanity,  for  she  was  human. 

The  morning  waned  away.  The  stage  was  to  start  at 
noon  that  was  to  bear  him  to  the  scene  of  his  future 
wealth.  Timothy  was  the  happiest  of  human  beings.  The 
wilderness  blossomed,  fountains  gushed  forth  in  the  desert 
of  his  life.  Then  his  conscience  reproached  him  for  not 
mourning  for  his  uncle,  and  being  so  very  happy,  and  he 
tried  to  look  sad,  but  failing  in  the  effort,  laughed  aloud. 
I  will  not  describe  the  leave  he  took  of  Miss  Mitty,  nor 
the  congratulations  of  Mrs.  Butler,  on  the  consummation  of 
her  warmest  wishes,  but  I  would  mention  how  Mr.  Butler 
heard  the  tidings  of  Timothy's  windfall,  but  he  was  unfor- 
tunately absent  in  that  eventful  morning.  The  horn 
sounded  clear  and  melodious,  the  stage  rattled  up  to  the 
door,  the  smooth  black  trunk  was  lashed  on  behind.  Tim- 
othy took  a  tender  leave  of  his  sister,  promised  the  children 
a  thousand  pretty  things  on  his  return  ;  then  stepping 
into  the  stage,  was  about  to  seat  himself  comfortably 
on  the  back  seat,  when  Joe  Butler,  jumping  on  the 
wheel,  whispered  loudly  in  his  ear,  "  Oh!  you  April 
fool!" 

Then  Timothy  did  indeed  remember  that  it  was  the  first 
of  April,  and  his  bosom  died  within  him  to  think  he  had 
been  the  dupe  of  a  mischief-loving  boy.  All  his  bright 
reversionary  prospects  melted  in  air ;  his  visions  of  love 
dissolved  in  tears.  He  was  incapable  of  harboring  any 
bitter  or  revengeful  feelings  toward  the  young  villain,  who 
had  served  him  such  a  trick,  but  the  iron  of  mortification 
entered  into  his  soul. 

He  got  "  sister"  to  explain  matters  to  Miss  Mitty,  who, 
strange  and  perverse  as  it  may  seem,  bestowed  that  resent- 
ment on  the  unoffending  and  too  credulous  Timothy  which 
was  due  only  to  the  saucy  Joe.  Mrs.  Butler  was  so  sensi- 
ble of  the  injustice  of  this,  that  she  gave  up  her  matri- 
monial speculations,  and  even  forgot  herself  so  far  as  to 
call  this  pattern  of  propriety  an  "unreasonable  old 
maid." 

Good  always  comes  out  of  evil :  his  flame  expired  with 


144         THE  PREMATURE   DECLARATION  OP  LOVE. 

the  oil  that  fed  it.  The  last  time  I  heard  from  him  he 
was  quite  hale  and  cheerful,  going  on  in  his  single  and 
upright  course,  a  candidate,  if  ever  man  was,  for  that 
reward  contained  in  the  beautiful  promise,  "  the  pure  in 
heart  shall  see  God." 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCBAP-BAG. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  family  of  Mr.  Worth  sat  in  silence  around  the  break- 
fast table.  It  was  an  unusual  thing  ;  and  one  who  had  been 
accustomed  to  the  cheerfulness  that  generally  prevailed  in 
the  domestic  circle,  would  have  wondered  at  the  stillness, 
and  even  sadness,  that  reigned  at  a  board,  covered  with  all 
the  necessaries  and  many  of  the  luxuries  of  life.  It  was, 
indeed,  an  inviting  board.  The  cloth  was  white  as  the  snow, 
which  still  lay  in  unmelted  drifts  on  the  northern  side  of  the 
dwelling ;  the  butter  was  fresh  from  the  churn,  with  an 
impression  of  roses,  which  no  one  had  yet  defaced  by  a 
knife  ;  the  rolls  were  so  light  and  white,  they  looked  as  if 
they  had  foamed  up  in  the  oven,  and  petrified  there  ;  ho- 
ney that  might  have  been  extracted  from  the  flowers  of  Ca- 
naan, from  its  sweetness  and  clearness,  looked  temptingly 
from  a  transparent  dish  ;  and  buckwheat  cakes,  palpitating 
and  smoking  from  the  griddle,  every  pore  filled  with  melted 
butter,  were  passed  round  the  table,  yet  none  but  the  younger 
children  extended  their  fork,  moved  by  a  spirit  of  appropria- 
tion. Yes  !  there  was  one  more,  and  that  was  Aunt  Patty, 
who  sat  on  the  right  side  of  Mrs.  Worth,  near  the  hissing 
coffee  urn,  and  who  never  suffered  sentiment  to  interfere 
with  the  duties  of  life — and  of  all  its  duties,  she  considered 
none  of  more  importance  and  dignity  than  those  connected 
with  the  science  of  gastronomy.  While  the  family  thus 
sit  in  silence,  and  most  of  them  in  idleness,  we  will  avail 
ourselves  of  the  opportunity  of  description,  and  present  them 
individually  before  the  reader.  Let  us  pay  honour  where 
honour  is  due,  and  commence  with  Mrs.  Worth,  who  sat  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  where  she  usually  presided,  the  image 
of  smiling  hospitality  ;  but  this  morning  there  was  no  smile 
10  145 


146  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

on  her  face,  and  every  now  and  then  a  tear  was  seen  ga- 
thering in  her  eye,  which  she  tried  to  force  back,  but  the 
utmost  her  efforts  could  accomplish  was  to  prevent  the  ga- 
thering drops  from  falling  in  a  shower.  She  was  a  hand- 
some woman,  or  rather  a  lovely  one,  and,  in  early  youth, 
must  have  been  beautiful.  In  her  bright  and  sunny  mo- 
ments, her  cheek  still  wore  a  spring-like  bloom,  but  now  it 
was  pale,  and  that  wanness  and  languor  which  proceed  from 
a  restless  and  sleepless  night  was  diffused  over  her  whole 
countenance.  She  had  that  soft  gray  eye,  which  we  al- 
ways associate  with  our  idea  of  a  religious  character — that 
colour  which  lightens  and  darkens  like  the  clouds  of  heaven, 
in  the  sunshine  and  shadow  of  the  heart.  Her  hair,  of  pale 
chestnut-brown,  was  parted  on  her  brow,  and  brought  down 
somewhat  low  over -temples  which  needed  their  shade,  to 
relieve  their  lofty  proportions.  The  plain  divided  hair  was 
also  relieved  by  the  border  of  a  thin  lace  cap,  ornamented 
by  a  pale  rose-coloured  ribbon.  It  was  the  colour  her  hus- 
band best  loved,  and  she  seldom  wore  any  other.  On  her 
right  side,  as  if  to  serve  as  a  foil  to  her  un faded  matron 
charms,  sat  Aunt  Patty,  her  own  maternal  aunt,  whose 
countenance  gave  one  an  idea  of  extreme  goodness,  from  its 
excessive  homeliness.  Her  nose  was  very  large,  particu- 
larly at  the  end,  and  about  the  regions  of  the  nostrils,  and, 
it  is  probable,  the  consciousness  of  possessing  unusual  ac- 
commodations for  the  business,  induced  her  to  adopt  the 
profession  of  snuff-taking.  But,  whatever  was  the  exciting 
motive,  she  was  the  very  queen  of  snuff-takers,  and  the 
number  and  variety  of  her  fancy  snuff-boxes  were  the  ad- 
miration of  all  the  children  of  the  neighbourhood.  She  had 
a  box  deposited  by  her  plate,  with  the  picture  of  Bonaparte 
in  full  regimentals  on  the  top  of  it,  whose  nose  was  almost 
obliterated  by  incessant  rapping.  A  crutch  rested  against 
her  chair,  which  showed  she  was  lame  ;  and  as  her  figure 
leaned  painfully  towards  the  right,  it  was  evident  that  she 
needed  support  on  that  side.  She  had  been  a  cripple  from 
early  childhood,  and  having  been  cut  off  from  all  the  active 
enjoyments  of  life,  had  acquired  an  inordinate  love  of  read- 
ing, though  her  taste  was  of  rather  a  peculiar  kind. 

But  we  will  not  enter  now  into  the  minutiae  of  mind.  We 
are  treating  of  externals,  and  there  is  a  large  family  to  dis- 
pose of  before  we  can  be  admitted  into  the  penetralia,  or  inner 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  147 

sanctuary.  There  is  another  peculiarity  of  Aunt  Patty's. 
She  eats  with  her  left  hand  alone — her  right  lies  passive 
in  her  lap.  Its  sinews  are  contracted,  and  the  skin  looks 
dry  and  withered.  When  a  child,  she  fell  into  the  fire,  when 
left  to  the  charge  of  a  faithless  nurse,  and  the  tender  liga- 
ments were  scorched,  the  soft  muscles  hardened,  and  the 
vigorous  growth  stunted.  It  may  be,  that  her  irregularities 
of  feature  were  caused  by  the  same  misfortune  ;  the  blood 
having  less  power  in  one  part  of  the  system  rioted  too  madly 
in  another,  and  produced  many  little  excrescences,  such  as 
warts  and  moles,  which  gave  a  striking  individuality  to 
Aunt  Patty's  appearance. 

Notwithstanding  her  total  destitution  of  personal  attrac- 
tions, Aunt  Patty  was  an  object  of  great  tenderness  and  af- 
fection to  her  kindred  and  intimate  acquaintances.  Unlike 
many,  who  are  visited  by  similar  calamities,  and  who  are 
made  selfish,  and  hard,  and  suspicious,  she  had  all  the  dis- 
interestedness and  simplicity  of  a  child.  But  it  will  nevei 
do  to  dwell  so  long  on  Aunt  Patty,  on  her  first  introduction 
to  the  reader,  though  we  acknowledge  that  she  is  an  espe- 
cial favourite. 

There  is  a  little  chubby-faced,  fat-armed,  rosy-cheeked, 
curly-haired  thing,  seated  up  in  a  high  chair,  close  to  her 
side,  who  looks  impatient  to  attract  our  notice.  That  is 
Estelle,  the  young  star  of  the  group,  and  the  cloud  that 
broods  over  every  other  face  has  cast  no  dimness  on  hers. 
It  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  look  sad.  Her  face  is  too 
round,  her  cheeks  too  rosy,  and  her  eyes  too  blue  and  bright. 
Her  upper  lip  is  too  short  entirely  to  conceal  her  ivory 
teeth;  so  she  cannot  help  smiling  if  she  would — and  her 
little  nose,  un  peu  retrousse,  gives  an  air  of  inexpressible 
mischief  to  her  countenance.  She  is  Aunt  Patty's  pet,  who 
would  think  the  sun  and  moon  well  appropriated  were  they 
plucked  from  the  sky  to  gratify  the  wishes  of  Estelle.  Her 
dish  is  piled  up  with  a  heap  of  buckwheat  cakes,  almost  as 
high  as  her  head,  swimming  in  an  ocean  of  honey  as  well 
as  butter,  which  Aunt  Patty  has  provided  for  her  darling, 
taking  advantage  of  the  sad  and  abstracted  mood  of  the  mo- 
ther, who  generally  restricts  the  appetites  of  the  children 
within  the  bounds  of  propriety.  But  Aunt  Patty  thinks 
that  nature  is  the  best  guide,  and  that  children  ought  to  eat 
as  long  as  they  can  swallow :  and  there  is  no  doubt  that  the 


148  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

dawning  intellect  of  Estelle  was  often  impeded  in  its  opera 
tions  by  the  injudicious  indulgence  of  her  privileged  relative. 

There  is  a  great  contrast  between  the  fair,  sunny-eyed 
j£stelle,  and  the  dark,  gloomy-browed  youth  seated  on  her 
right.  Who  would  dream  that  he  is  her  own  brother,  the 
son  of  that  gentle  mother  ?  Yet  it  is  even  so,  and  the  same 
blood  that  seems  to  bubble  up  in  her  cherub-cheeks,  flows 
like  molten  lead  in  his  veins.  He  has  the  lofty  brow  of  his 
mother,  and  the  firm-set  lips  of  his  father,  but  his  eyes  are 
all  his  own — large,  dark,  and  sullen,  yet  lustrous  in  their 
gloom  ;  they  remind  one  of  a  lantern  in  a  dark  abbey,  or  a 
torch  in  a  dark  pine  wood,  the  flash  making  the  shades  more 
deep  by  contrast.  The  expression  of  misanthropy,  which  is 
the  prevailing  character  of  his  countenance,  he  has  worn 
from  early  childhood,  and  it  now  settles  like  a  thick  fog  on 
the  bloom  of  his  adolescence.  He  is  the  Esau  of  the  family, 
who  believes  there  is  no  blessing  for  him.  He  seldom  sits 
down  at  the  domestic  board,  and  nothing  but  an  occasion 
like  the  present  would  induce  him  to  depart  from  his  gloomy 
and  retired  habits.  Homer  has  the  right  of  primogeniture, 
but  he  imagines  his  younger  brother  has  robbed  him  of  his 
birthright,  and  had  he  hated  the  world  less,  he  might  have 
become  an  alien  from  the  paternal  roof.  The  eyes  of  the 
father  are  now  fixed  upon  him,  with  an  expression  of  in- 
tense anxiety.  Homer  frowns  under  a  consciousness  of  tne 
steadfast  look.  He  has  a  horror  of  being  gazed  upon ;  and 
meeting  at  the  same  time  the  tearful  glance  of  his  mother, 
he  rises  suddenly  and  leaves  the  table. 

Mr.  Worth  was  a  man  of  remarkable  dignity  of  appear- 
ance and  manner.  His  figure  was  tall  and  stately,  sur- 
mounted by  a  Roman  bust  and  Brutus-head.  He  was  said 
to  resemble  the  best  pictures  of  Washington,  that  is,  in  the 
somewhat  square  outline  of  the  face,  and  the  large  sockets 
of  the  eyes ;  but  the  eyes  themselves  were  larger  and  darker, 
and  had  more  fire  and  tenderness,  and  the  hue  of  his  com- 
plexion and  hair  were  both  exceedingly  dark.  His  smile 
was  singularly  fine,  contrasting,  as  it  did,  with  the  prevailing 
gravity  of  his  countenance.  Little  Estelle  said,  "  when  fa- 
ther smiled,  it  looked  like  the  sun  shining  out  from  behind 
a  cloud."  Aunt  Patty  treasured  this  up  among  the  many 
smart  savings,  that  indicated  her  favourite's  precious  ge- 
r '•'•*.  Ii  the  children  hailed  their  father's  smiles  as  the 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG,  149 

breaking  sunbeams,  they  feared  his  frowns  of  anger  more 
than  the  wrath  of  elements.  He  was  seldom  angry,  and 
never  without  a  just  cause  ;  and  he  had  such  perfect  mas- 
tery of  his  own  passions,  that  even  when  unchained,  he 
could  make  them  the  vassals  of  his  will.  His  influence  in 
his  own  family,  in  the  neighbourhood,  indeed,  as  far  as  he 
was  known,  was  irresistible.  It  was  the  combined  influence 
of  a  commanding  intellect,  uncompromising  principles,  en- 
larged philanthropy,  and  the  kindliest  sensibilities  ;  and  it 
is  no  wonder  that  such  an  union  should  have  strength.  His 
name  became  him  well.  It  was  a  compendium  of  his 
whole  character. 

A  pale  young  girl,  of  about  twelve,  sat  on  the  right  of  her 
father,  whose  name  was  Emma  ;  she  was  the  eldest  daugh- 
ter of  the  household,  and  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  her 
father,  though  a  constitutional  delicacy  of  complexion  gave 
a  softness  to  features,  which  might  have  otherwise  seemed 
too  decided  in  their  outline.  She  had  a  slender  chest, 
drooping  shoulders,  a  small,  bright  flush  on  her  cheeks,  and 
eyes  too  large  in  proportion  to  the  rest  of  her  face.  But  they 
were  so  brilliant,  so  spiritual,  so  unchildish  in  their  expres- 
sion, that  with  her  fragile  frame,  and  delicate,  flushed  com- 
plexion, her  appearance  was  uncommonly  interesting.  You 
could  read  her  history  in  her  countenance  from  the  cradle 
to  the  present  hour.  A  feeble  infant,  apparently  destined 
for  a  grave  not  more  than  a  span  long,  a  child  of  many  ten- 
der cares  and  trembling  hopes,  hopes  becoming  steadier, 
and  stronger  as  time  passed  on,  without  realizing  the  fears 
which  often  overshadowed  those  trembling  hopes.  She  was 
the  young  moralist  of  the  family  ;  and  sickness  had  given 
her  such  sanctity  in  the  eyes  of  the  younger  children,  that 
they  looked  upon  her  as  more  angel  than  mortal,  as  one  who 
had  wings  on  her  shoulders,  ready  to  unfurl  in  the  golden 
light  of  heaven. 

Seated  between  Emma  and  Bessy,  the  younger  sister, 
was  Edmundv  the  Jacob  whom  the  misanthropic  Homer 
suspected  and  envied.  "In  truth,  young  Edmund  was  no 
vulgar  boy."  There  seemed  an  innate  nobility  about  him, 
that  spoke  in  his  walk,  in  his  bow,  in  the  manner  in  which 
he  put  on  his  hat,  or  moved  a  chair,  which  the  stranger- 
guf-st  always  noticed  and  admired.  Then  there  was  such 
sunniness  and  vivacity  in  his  countenance,  such  winning 


150  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

frankness  and  glowing  warmth  ;  his  face  was  like  a  bright 
spring  morning,  all  radiance  and  bloom.  His  mother  said, 
that  Edmund  had  never  given  her  heart  one  moment's  pain 
from  disobedience,  obstinacy,  or  passion ;  and  Aunt  Patty 
said,  he  came  into  the  world  with  the  commandments  writ- 
ten on  his  heart,  and  that  there  was  no  need  of  his  learning 
them.  It  was  not  often  that  a  shadow  flitted  over  his  soul- 
lighted  brow ;  but  one  rested  there  now,  and  it  had  deepen- 
ed since  Homer's  abrupt  departure  from  the  table.  Indeed, 
that  circumstance  had  added  to  the  evident  depression  of  the 
family  group. 

Bessy,  the  younger  sister  of  Emma,  the  foster-child  of 
Hygea,  looked  like  no  one  in  the  world  but  herself,  and  no 
one  who  saw  her  could  wish  her  to  look  otherwise.  She 
was  very  fair,  and  had  that  Grecian  outline  of  face  and  fea- 
ture, so  beautiful  in  profile.  Her  eyes  were  of  a  clear  ce- 
rulean, such  as  you  see  in  a  summer  morning, — and  they 
had  a  natural  lifting  towards  heaven,  as  if  conscious  of  their 
consanguinity  with  the  beautiful  azure  of  the  skies.  Then 
her  hair !  who  ever  saw  such  lovely  ringlets  ?  They  were 
of  a  flaxen  colour — not  that  dry,  dingy  flaxen,  such  as  is  seen 
on  the  heads  of  children  who  roll  about  all  day  in  the  hot 
sun,  but  a  bright,  golden  texture,  that  sparkled  and  rippled 
in  its  own  joyous  freedom.  Bessy  was  an  ardent,  imagina- 
tive child,  and  she  loved  to  watch  the  clouds  at  sunset,  and 
to  tell  her  dreams  in  the  morning.  The  other  children 
called  her  Aunt  Elinor,  because  Aunt  Elinor,  in  that  famous 
book  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  was  the  dream-teller  of  the  no- 
vel. Not  that  they  had  read  that  voluminous  work  them- 
selves, but  they  had  heard  it,  revised  and  corrected,  from 
the  lips  of  Aunt  Patty,  who  was  unequalled  in  her  oral 
powers.  It  was  the  first  morning  for  a  long  time  that  Bessy 
had  not  entertained  the  family  with  some  vision  more  daz- 
zling and  wonderful  than  all  the  creations  of  the  Arabian 
Nights,  the  oracle  of  her  imagination.  But  it  is  not  proba- 
ble she  had  any  dreams  to  tell.  She  looked  as  if  she  had 
scarcely  slept,  and  a  pink  circle  round  her  eyes  betrayed 
the  tears  which  had  been  resting  there. 

But  why,  it  may  naturally  be  asked,  this  unusual  silence 
and  sadness,  and  traces  of  recent  tears  ?  It  may  be  told  in 
a  few  words ; — The  husband  and  father  was  about  to  depart 
on  a  long  journey.  He  expected  to  be  absent  a  long  time 


. 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  151 

on  perplexing  business ;  and,  moreover,  he  was  going  to 
the  far  south,  to  be  exposed  to  a  dangerous  climate,  pecu- 
liarly dangerous  to  a  man  of  his  vigorous  constitution.  He 
was  going  on  horseback,  for  he  could  not  bear  the  confine- 
ment of  a  stage,  when  he  could  ride  in  the  open  air  on  his 
good  horse  Faithful,  who  had  carried  him  safely  over  many 
a  rough  and  weary  road.  His  trunks  had  already  been 
forwarded,  and  his  valise  lay  ready  in  a  chair  to  be  strapped 
on  the  back  of  Faithful,  who,  if  he  could  have  been  con- 
scious of  the  treasures  it  contained,  would  have  exulted  un- 
der the  burden.  Had  there  been  room,  the  children  would 
have  loaded  him  with  bushels  of  apples,  and  nuts,  and  cakes, 
to  regale  the  traveller ; — as  it  was,  they  mourned  bitterly 
over  the  narrow  limits  prescribed  to  them,  and  wished  va- 
lises were  made  of  India  rubber,  so  that  they  could  be 
stretched  as  wide  as  one  wished.  Estelle  was  extremely 
desirous  to  pack  up  her  gray  and  white  kitten  for  her  fa- 
ther's amusement,  but  when  he  convinced  her  that  it  would 
die  for  want  of  air,  her  solicitude  for  her  kitten  conquered 
her  filial  anxiety.  She  persuaded  him,  however,  to  take  a 
china  kitten,  which  had  been  her  pet  before  she  had  a  pre- 
sent of  the  live  one,  as  there  was  no  danger  of  smothering 
it,  and  it  would  occupy  very  little  room. 

Emma,  who  was  celebrated  for  her  skill  as  a  seamstress, 
had  for  some  time  been  sedulously  engaged  in  making  up 
some  fine  linen  shirts  for  her  father,  in  which  she  would  al- 
low no  one  to  put  one  stitch  but  herself.  Not  satisfied  with 
the  multitudinous  and  superfluous  stitches  which  custoin 
requires  should  be  used  in  the  manufacture  of  such  gar- 
ments, she  was  embroidering  the  gussets,  and  hemstitching 
the  bosoms,  in  all  the  luxuriance  of  ornamental  affection, 
when  he  convinced  her  that  there  was  great  danger  of  his 
being  taken  up  as  an  ultra  dandy,  and  she  was  obliged  to 
content  herself  with  greater  simplicity  of  execution. 

Bessy  had  been  knitting  a  pair  of  dark  worsted  gloves, 
with  an  ivory  hook,  which,  after  some  unexpected  difficul- 
ties, were  completed  to  the  satisfaction  of  her  father,  if  not  to 
her  own.  The  first  glove  was  too  small,  but  he  said  it  was 
not  of  any  consequence,  for  it  would  stretch  ;  the  next  was 
too  large,  but  he  was  equally  sure  that  it  would  shrink. 
This  kind  of  reasoning  reminded  Bessy  of  the  traveller,  who 
wanned  his  fingers  and  cooled  his  broth  with  the  same 


152  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

breath.  But  when  she  saw  the  gloves  upon  his  hands, 
without  presenting  much  apparent  discrepancy,  she  was 
satisfied  of  the  soundness  of  his  arguments.  They  were 
a  very  acceptable  gift,  as  the  chill  winds  of  March  were 
blowing,  and  the  traveller  needed  every  comfort  to  shield 
him  from  their  northern  blasts. 

Aunt  Patty  had  put  an  ample  snuff-box  in  the  corner  of 
his  valise,  and  told  him  he  must  take  a  pinch  of  snuff  every 
night  in  memorial  of  her,  and  he  must  bring  her  the  pret- 
tiest box  in  all  Carolina,  as  a  keepsake  in  return.  Aunt 
Patty  made  another  request,  which  he  promised  to  remem- 
ber, and,  as  far  as  it  was  practicable,  obey.  One  of  her  dar- 
ling hobbies  was  to  collect  pieces  of  calico,  muslin,  and  silk, 
samples  of  the  dresses  of  all  her  friends  and  acquaintances, 
and  every  once  in  a  while  she  would  open  her  scrap-bag, 
and  review  her  treasures,  telling  the  names  of  the  indivi- 
duals who  wore  such  and  such  frocks,  and  relating  many 
choice  anecdotes,  connected  with  the  circumstances  under 
which  the  specimens  were  obtained.  She  gave  positive 
injunctions  to  Mr.  Worth,  to  preserve  relics  of  the  dresses 
of  all  the  ladies  with  whom  he  became  acquainted,  to  add  to 
her  already  vast  collection.  She  anticipated  a  rich  feast  in 
comparing  the  colour,  texture,  and  figure  of  the  materials 
which  compose  a  southern  lady's  wardrobe,  imagining  it 
must  be  entirely  different  from  her  northern  sisters.  This 
was  such  an  innocent  recreation  to  Aunt  Patty,  and  her 
sources  of  enjoyment  were  so  limited,  and  it  was  such  a  de- 
light to  the  children,  to  gather  round  her  knees,  and  hear  the 
history  of  the  parti-coloured  shreds,  which  lay  like  a  broken 
rainbow  in  her  lap,  that  Mr.  Worth  himself  took  no  small 
pleasure  in  thinking  he  should  have  an  opportunity  of  add- 
ing to  her  already  immense  hoard.  She  gave  him  a  large 
reception  bag,  in  which  to  deposit  the  precious  morceaus, 
with  many  directions  to  learn  every  thing  possible  connected 
with  the  wearers  of  the  garments,  that  the  increase  in  her 
historical  lore  might  be  in  proportion  to  the  accession  of  her 
wealth.  "  Well,"  said  she,  breaking  the  silence,  and  trying 
to  coax  Estelle  with  a  fresh  roll,  who  leaned  back  in  her 
high  chair  in  a  state  of  perfect  repletion,  "  there  is  no  use 
in  looking  so  sad.  The  world  is  made  up  of  partings 
and  meetings ;  and  if  people  never  parted  they  would  never 
know  the  comfort  of  meeting  again.  It  is  well  to  go  away 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  153 

sometimes,  just  to  know  how  good  home  is.  We  must  only 
trust  in  Providence,  and  all  will  go  right  wherever  we  may 
be." 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Patty,"  replied  Mr.  Worth,  with  a  slight 
huskiness  of  voice,  "  you  have  uttered  volumes  in  that  little 
phrase.  The  belief  in  a  guardian  Providence,  that  not  only 
watches  over  me,  but  mine,  will  be  my  best  consolation 
during  the  lonely  hours  of  absence.  My  wife,  my  chil- 
dren, you  must  remember  that  I  shall  watch  the  coming  of 
the  mail  as  the  approach  of  a  good  angel,  and  you  must  not 
let  it  come  without  tokens  of  love  for  me." 

"  There  is  no  need  of  reminding  me  as  a  duty,  of  what 
will  be  my  chief  happiness,"  replied  Mrs.  Worth,  half  re- 
proachfully. "  I  only  fear  that  I  shall  occupy  too  much  of 
your  time.  You  know,  in  my  own  family,  they  called  me 
the  scribbler,  and  I  have  not  forfeited  the  title." 

"  You  are  blest  with  the  pen  of  a  ready  writer,"  said  the 
husband,  "  and  can  speak  from  the  heart  to  the  heart  most 
eloquently.  There  are  many  who  are  charming  companions 
when  present,  who  are  cold  and  careless  in  absence.  Letter- 
writing  is  an  accomplishment  of  priceless  value — one  in 
which  the  best  qualities  of  the  head  and  heart  are  called  into 
exercise.  I  wish  my  children  to  cultivate  it  in  a  high  de- 
gree. They  can  have  no  better  opportunity  than  addressing 
an  absent  and  loving  father.  You  fear  my  criticism  ?  Well 
I  acknowledge  I  am  rather  an  unmerciful  critic ;  but  it  is 
only  by  the  exposure  of  your  errors  you  will  improve.  1 
place  my  standard  of  excellence  very  high,  and  yovi  must 
all  strive  to  attain  it.  Yet  be  not  discouraged — simplicity, 
truth  and  vivacity,  are  the  best  qualities  in  a  correspondent, 
and  little  Estelle  herself  can  boast  of  these,  and  woi'ld  write 
an  admirable  letter,  if  her  chirography  were  equal  to  her 
intelligence." 

"  Chirography  !"  repeated  Aunt  Patty — "you  don't  ex- 
pect the  child  to  understand  such  a  word  as  that.  I  alwav  s 
think  it  best  to  use  short  words  in  speaking  to  children." 

"  You  can  explain  it  to  her,  Aunt  Patty,"  said  Edmund, 
rather  archly,  for  he  well  knew,  that  though  Aunt  Patty 
was  a  devourer  of  books,  she  saw  no  necessity  of  under- 
standing the  meaning  of  every  word  she  read  herself,  and 
when  she  saw  a  long  word  she  was  apt  to  skip  it.  "  But, 
father,"  continued  he,  "  mother  will  tell  you  all  the  good 


154  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

and  great  things  in  her  long  letters,  and  there  will  he  none 
but  little,  insignificant  trifles  for  us  to  relate." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  my  hoy,  if  you  think  great  things 
are  necessary  to  give  interest  to  an  epistle  from  home.  The 
slightest  incident,  the  description  of  the  daily  minutiae  of 
life,  a  walk  in  the  woods,  a  visit  to  or  from  a  friend,  a  sketch 
of  the  book  you  are  reading — the  drawing  you  are  making 
— possess  a  charm,  which  young  letter-writers  cannot  ima- 
gine, or  they  would  never  strain  after  such  unnatural  sub- 
jects and  artificial  style  as  they  sometimes  do.  Even  a 
dream,  my  Bessy,  such  as  has  often  enlivened  our  family 
breakfast  table,  would  be  quite  captivating  at  times.  You 
must  all  write  as  if  you  were  my  only  correspondent,  and 
be  not  afraid  of  repeating  the  same  thing  twice,  for  you  will 
all  relate  it  in  a  different  manner,  and  that  will  prevent  it 
from  being  tedious.  I  expect  a  great  deal  from  my  young 
moralist  here,  who  can  turn  even  the  frolics  of  Estelle's 
kitten  into  sources  of  instruction." 

Emma  blushed,  and  the  children  began  to  reflect  a  great 
deal  on  the  importance  of  letter-writing,  and  of  the  materials 
they  intended  to  collect  to  fill  their  future  pages.  They  felt 
elevated  in  their  own  estimation,  since  they  found  their  fa- 
ther looked  to  them  for  intellectual  amusement,  and  they 
resolved  that  no  link  should  be  wanting  in  the  chain  of 
events  wrought  during  his  absence,  but  that  it  should  receive 
brightness  and  beauty  from  their  touch.  They  became,  in 
a  measure,  reconciled  to  his  departure,  and  a  gleam  of  sun- 
shine broke  through  the  cloud  which  had  lowered  over  the 
household  shrine.  The  long,  gloomy  silence  being  once 
broken,  conversation  flowed  more  easily  and  cheerfully,  and 
they  all,  by  tacit  understanding,  lingered  as  long  as  possible 
round  the  table,  knowing  their  rising  would  be  the  signal 
for  his  departure, 

"There  is  one  caution,  Aunt  Patty,"  said  Mr.  Worth, 
"  which  I  must  mention,  and  you  must  not  be  displeased." 
Here  one  of  his  rare  smiles  gleamed  on  his  countenance, 
and  Aunt  Patty  smiled  from  sympathy,  though  she  knew 
not  its  meaning.  "Now,"  added  he,  "you  want  your  dar- 
ling Estelle  to  be  a  beauty,  a  wit,  and  a  genius,  but  if  you 
pamper  her  appetite  as  you  now  do,  she  will  be  nothing  but  a 
gross  little  animal,  with  eyes  standing  out  with  fatness,  and 
head  as  heavy  as  an  apple-dumpling.  Show  your  love  to 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  155 

her  in  any  other  way ;  give  her  red-headed  pins,  button  wood 
balls,  or  any  of  your  peculiar  gifts,  but  don't  drown  her  in 
butter  or  honey,  or  stuff  her  with  rolls  and  hot  cakes." 

"  If  its  the  fashion  to  starve  children  now,"  replied  Aunt 
Patty,  "  to  make  them  bright,  it  wasn't  when  I  was  young. 
I  was  always  allowed  to  eat  what  I  wanted,  and  it  never  hurt 
my  intellect." 

"  But  all  minds  may  not  possess  such  a  preservative 
principle  as  yours,  Aunt  Patty.  At  any  rate,  attend  to  my 
wishes  in  this  respect,  and  I  will  put  every  lady  I  see  un- 
der contribution  for  your  calico  museum.  Edmund,  find 
your  brother;  I  must  see  him  again  before  I  bid  you  fare- 
well. That  unhappy  boy,"  added  he,  in  a  low  voice  to  his 
wife,  as  they  together  left  the  apartment,  "  I  fear  he  will 
hang  heavy  on  your  heart  during  my  absence." 

"  Deal  gently  with  him,  my  husband,"  said  the  mother  ; 
"a  word,  a  mere  breath  wounds  his  sensitive  and  too  exact- 
ing spirit.  Do  not  upbraid  him  for  his  strange  and  abrupt 
manners — a  word  of  reproof  now  would  rankle  in  his  bosom 
for  months.  We  must  be  very,  very  tender  with  him,  if 
we  would  not  alienate  him  entirely  from  our  affections." 

"  Ah  !  my  beloved  Emma,"  replied  he,  "  I  fear  the  very 
excess  of  your  tenderness  has  a  pernicious  influence  on  his 
character.  It  fosters  that  morbid,  selfish  sensibility  which 
preys  darkly  on  itself,  and  converts  into  wormwood  and  gall 
the  very  life-blood  of  his  heart.  I  perceive  he  is  in  one  of 
his  darkest  moods,  and  I  cannot  leave  him,  without  making 
a  more  strenuous  effort  than  I  have  ever  done  before,  to 
rouse  him  from  the  moral  sepulchre  in  which  he  is  entomb- 
ing himself.  Do  not  fear,  I  will  address  him  with  all  the 
tenderness  of  a  mother,  mingled  with  the  authority  of  a  fa- 
ther ;  and,  if  1  cannot  move  his  sullen  temper,  I  will  take 
him  with  me,  rather  than  the  peace  of  my  household  should 
be  disturbed  by  his  strange  paroxysms  of  passion." 

"  Oh !  never,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Worth,  "  he  would  be 
wretched  among  strangers  ;  and  so  great  would  be  his  re- 
luctance, that  you  wonld  be  compelled  to  use  coercion  to 
force  obedience  to  your  will.  Though  you  fear  the  effects 
of  too  much  tenderness,  I  have  no  words  to  express  my 
dread  of  the  consequences  of  such  a  course.  If  one  human 
being  has  more  influence  over  him  than  another,  I  believe  it 
is  myself,  and  I  know  he  will  not  willingly  add  to  the  sor- 
nw  caused  by  this  long  separation." 


156  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

Mrs.  Worth  hung  on  her  husband's  arm  as  she  spoke, 
and  looked  beseechingly  in  his  eyes.  She  pleaded  the 
cause  of  her  first-born  with  all  a  mother's  eloquence.  Much 
as  her  own  heart  condemned  him,  she  could  not  bear  that 
others  should  speak  with  severity  of  his  faults.  She  seemed 
conscious,  that  instead  of  winning,  he  repelled  from  him 
the  affections  and  sympathies  of  his  kind,  and  she  wanted 
to  make  up  to  him,  in  the  prodigality  of  a  mother's  love,  for 
the  forfeited  esteem  of  the  world.  So  unceasing,  so  shield- 
ing, was  her  watchful  observance  of  him,  that  many  misin- 
terpreted her  feelings,  and  believed  him  her  favourite  child, 
more  especially  as  she  often  repressed  the  gushings  of  her 
maternal  heart  towards  Edmund,  her  beautiful  and  beloved, 
lest  the  demon  of  jealousy,  that  lay  like  a  sleeping  lion  in 
the  breast  of  Homer,  should  leap  from  its  lair. 

Unable  to  control,  or  conceal  her  agitation,  Mrs.  Worth 
left  the  apartment,  from  an  opposite  door,  as  Homer  entered 
and  stood  before  his  father,  with  folded  arms  and  sullen 
brow. 

Mr.  Worth  remained  silent  a  few  moments,  with  his  left 
hand  in  his  breast,  and  his  right  supported  by  the  back  of  a 
chair.  It  was  his  usual  attitude ;  and  as  it  presented  his 
person  in  its  full  height,  it  enhanced  its  commanding  dig- 
nity. The  struggle  to  master  his  emotions  gave  a  sternness 
to  his  countenance,  of  which  he  was  not  aware,  and  Homer 
felt  he  was  arraigned  before  a  judge,  rather  than  a  father, 
and  he  resolved  to  meet  him  in  the  spirit  of  a  man. 

"  My  son,"  said  Mr.  Worth,  "  I  wished  to  speak  with 
you  a  few  moments,  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  family,  and 
I  would  speak  with  the  solemnity  of  one,  who  may  never 
have  an  opportunity  of  addressing  you  again.  On  the  eve 
of  parting  from  objects  inexpressibly  dear,  anxieties,  heavy 
before,  press  upon  me  with  the  weight  of  iron.  I  go,  in  the 
hope  of  establishing  my  claims  to  an  inheritance  which  will 
place  my  children  in  affluence,  and  give  them  an  influence 
in  society  which  merit  and  talent  alone  could  not  impart. 
You  are  my  first-born  son,  and,  thotighamere  boy  in  years, 
are  fast  acquiring  the  stature  of  a  man.  Your  mind  has 
grown  beyond  your  years,  and  were  its  energies  well  di- 
rected, it  might  become,  at  some  future  day,  a  mighty  engine, 
to  work  out  your  country's  good.  But  the  same  power, 
compressed  in  its  limits,  may  be  terrible.  Like  the  tiger 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAU.  157 

that  chafes  in  impotent  strength  against  the  bars  of  its  cage, 
it  lashes  itself  to  fury,  and  is  wasted  itself  at  last  in  ineffec- 
tual efforts.  You  like  strong  expressions,  and  I  use  them. 
You  do  not  like  to  be  treated  as  a  child,  and  I  place  in  you 
the  confidence  of  a  man.  For  your  sake,  more  than  for  my 
other  children,  do  I  involve  myself  in  the  intricacies  of  law, 
and  sacrifice  the  comforts  of  home.  You,  as  my  eldest  born, 
will  be  my  representative,  and  society  will  look  to  you,  to 
keep  up  the  honour  of  a  name,  known  and  respected  through 
many  generations.  The  higher  your  fortunes,  the  greater 
your  responsibilities.  My  son,  I  wish  you  to  feel  them  as 
you  ought." 

"  No,  father,"  replied  Homer  gloomily  ;  "  it  is  not  for  me 
to  sustain  your  name  and  fame.  You  have  another  son, 
younger,  it  is  true,  but  a  great  deal  more  gifted  and  more 
beloved  than  I  am.  Let  Edmund  have  all  the  money,  since 
he  has  stolen  every  thing  else." 

"  And  who  told  you,  unhappy  boy,  that  Edmund  had  sup- 
planted you  in  our  affections  ?  What  proofs  of  love  has  he 
received  which  have  not  been  lavished  on  you  ?  Oh  !  Ho- 
mer, my  heart  bleeds  for  your  perverseness.  And  there  is 
another  heart,  still  more  tender  and  fond  than  mine,  that 
throbs  with  unutterable  anxiety  on  your  account.  You 
were  the  first  that  opened  the  overflowing  fountain  of  pa- 
rental love  in  our  bosoms,  that  fountain  which  no  ingratitude 
can  chill,  no  exactions  can  drain.  We  love  Edmund  no 
better  than  yourself.  There  is  an  evil  spirit  within  you, 
which  whispers  bad  lessons  to  your  secret  soul.  Beware, 
Homer ;  it  is  the  same  spirit  that  instigated  Cain  to  envy, 
hate,  then  murder  his  unoffending  brother,  and  bathed  the 
green  turf  of  Eden  in  kindred  blood.  The  same  spirit  which 
urged  the  jealous  brothers  of  Joseph  to  all  their  dark  and 
cruel  deeds.  Beware,  lest  it  wind  you,  body  and  soul,  in 
its  serpent  folds." 

Homer  turned  very  pale,  and  his  under-lip  quivered  with 
emotion.  He  averted  his  head,  but  not  before  his  father  saw 
large,  scalding  tears,  plashing  like  rain-drops  on  his  cheek. 
Mr.  Worth  could  man  himself  against  his  sullen,  defying 
mood,  but  this  unexpected  burst  of  sensibility  melted  him 
at  once.  Taking  his  hand,  and  drawing  him  closely  to  him, 
he  attempted  to  speak,  but  the  effort  was  ineffectual.  Ho 
mer's  long  pent-up  feelings,  having  once  broke  loose,  were 


AUNT    PATTY  S    SCRAP-BAG. 

ungovernable.  He  leaned  his  head  on  his  father's  shoulder, 
and,  in  the  strong  language  of  Scripture,  "  lifted  up  his 
voice  and  wept  aloud."  "  Oh,  my«son  !"  exclaimed  his  fa- 
ther, when  he  once  more  obtained  the  mastery  of  his  voice, 
"  never,  since  the  hour  when  I  first  received  you  a  new-born 
babe  in  my  arms,  has  my  heart  yearned  over  you  as  it  does  at 
this  moment.  Promise  me,  then,  in  the  strength  of  awak- 
ened confidence  and  affettion,  that  you  will  make,  during 
my  absence,  the  happiness  of  your  mother  your  first  object 
— that  of  your  brother  and  sisters  your  next.  Promise,  with 
God's  help,  that  if  I  should  return  no  more,  and  this  house 
should  become  the  home  of  the  widow  and  the  fatherless, 
that  you  will  be  their  stay  and  pillar,  their  shield  and  con- 
solation." 

Homer  grasped  his  father's  hands,  and,  uplifting  his  eyes, 
repeated  the  promise  he  required.  Good  angels  were  ho- 
vering near,  and  the  evil  spirit  fled  from  the  music  of  their 
rustling  wings.  The  father  and  son  went  out  together 
hand  in  hand ;  and  when  the  mother  met  them,  she  knew 
that  ail  was  well  between  them,  and  she  was  sustained  in  the 
trying  moment  of  separation. 

The  thousand  adieus  were  spoken,  the  farewell  embraces 
given,  and  the  traveller,  mounted  on  the  back  of  Faithful, 
who  had  also  received  many  an  affectionate  caress,  passed 
from  the  loved  shadow  of  the  homestead.  The  wife  retired 
to  her  chamber,  that  she  might  veil  her  grief  in  secrecy, — 
the  children  stood  at  the  door,  and  followed  with  wistful 
gaze  the  stately  figure  of  their  father,  till  the  last  glimpse  of 
his  dark-blue  riding-dress  disappeared  beneath  the  arch  of 
two  meeting  elms.  The  voice  of  Aunt  Patty  called  them 
back  into  the  breakfast  room. 

"  You  must  never  look  after  a  person  as  long  as  you  can 
see  them,"  said  she,  with  mournful  emphasis ;  "  it  is  a  sure 
sign  that  you  will  never  see  them  again." 

"  Oh  !  don't  say  so,  Aunt  Patty,"  exclaimed  Bessy,  with 
a  fresh  burst  of  tears,  "  we  have  all  been  looking  after  him 
as  long  as  we  could  see  his  shadow  on  the  snow." 

A  reverential  belief  in  signs  and  omens  was  another  of 
Aunt  Patty's  individualities  ;  and  in  these  Bessy  had  more 
faith  than  the  other  children,  for  Aunt  Patty  was  the  inter- 
preter of  her  dreams,  and  invested  them  with  a  prophetic 
dignity,  at  least  in  her  own  eyes. 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  159 


CHAPTER  II. 

IT  was  a  rainy  day,  a  real,  old-fashioned,  orthodox  rainy 
day.  It  rained  the  first  thing  in  the  morning,  it  rained 
harder  and  harder  at  midday.  The  afternoon  was  drawing 
to  a  close,  and  still  the  rain  came  down  in  steady  and  per- 
severing drops,  every  drop  falling  in  a  decided  and  obsti- 
nate way,  as  if  conscious,  though  it  might  be  ever  so  unwel- 
come, no  one  had  a  right  to  oppose  its  coming.  A  rainy 
day  in  mid-summer  is  a  glorious  thing.  The  grass  looks 
up  so  green  and  grateful  under  the  life-giving  moisture  ;  the 
flowers  send  forth  such  a  delicious  aroma ;  the  tall  forest- 
trees  bend  down  their  branches  so  gracefully  in  salutation 
to  the  messengers  of  heaven.  There  are  beauty,  grace,  and 
glory  in  a  mid-summer  rain,  and  the  spirit  of  man  becomes 
gay  and  buoyant  under  its  influence.  But  a  March  rain  in 
New  England,  when  the  vane  of  the  weather-cock  points 
inveterately  to  the  north-east,  when  the  brightness,  and  pu- 
rity, and  posifiveness  of  winter  is  gone,  and  not  one  promise 
of  spring  breaks  cheeringly  on  the  eye,  is  a  dismal  concern. 

Little  Estelle  stood  looking  out  at  the  window,  with  her 
nose  pressed  against  a  pane  of  glass,  wishing  it  would  clear 
up,  it  was  so  pretty  to  see  the  sun  break  out  just  as  he  was 
setting.  The  prospect  abroad  was  not  very  inviting.  It 
was  a  patch  of  mud  and  a  patch  of  snow,  the  dirtiest  mix- 
ture in  nature's  olio.  A  little  boy  went  slumping  by,  sink- 
ing at  every  step  almost  to  his  knees  ;  then  a  carriage  slowly 
and  majestically  came  plashing  along,  its  wheels  buried  in 
mud.  the  horses  labouring  and  straining,  and  every  now  and 
then  shaking  the  slime  indignantly  from  their  fetlocks,  and 
probably  thinking  none  but  amphibious  animals  should  be 
abroad  in  such  weather. 

"  Oh !  it  is  such  an  ugly,  ugly  day !"  said  Estelle,  "  I  do 
wish  it  were  over." 

"  You  should  not  find  fault  with  the  weather,"  replied 
Emma  ;  "  mother  says  it  is  wicked,  for  God  sends  us  what 
weather  seemeth  good  to  him.     For  my  part,  I  have  had  a 
very  happy  day  reading  and  sewing." 
121  " 


160  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

"  And  I  too,"  said  Bessy,  "  but  I  begin  to  be  tired  now, 
and  I  wish  I  could  see  some  of  those  beautiful  crimson 
clouds,  tinged  with  gold,  that  wait  upon  sunset." 

"  Bessy  has  such  a  romantic  mode  of  expression,"  cried 
Edmund,  laughing  and  laying  down  his  book  ;  "  I  think  she 
will  make  a  poet  one  of  these  days.  Even  now,  I  see  upon 
her  lips  « a  prophetess's  fire.'  " 

Bessy's  blue  eyes  peeped  at  her  brother  through  her 
golden  curls,  and  something  in  them  seemed  to  say,  "  that 
is  not  such  a  ridiculous  prophecy  as  you  imagine." 

"  This  is  a  dreadful  day  for  a  traveller,"  said  Mrs.  Worth, 
with  a  sigh,  and  the  children  all  thought  of  their  father,  ex- 
posed to  the  inclemency  of  the  atmosphere,  and  they  echoed 
their  mother's  sigh.  They  all  looked  very  sad,  till  the  en- 
trance of  another  member  of  the  family  turned  their  thoughts 
into  a  new  channel.  This  was  no  other  than  Estelle's  kit- 
ten, whjch  had  been  perambulating  in  the  mire  and  rain, 
till  she  looked  the  most  forlorn  object  in  the  world.  Her 
sides  were  hollow  and  dripping,  and  her  tail  clung  to  her 
back  in  a  most  abject  manner.  There  was  a  simultaneous 
exclamation  at  her  dishevelled  appearance,  but  Miss  Kitty 
walked  on  as  demurely  as  if  nothing  particular  had  hap- 
pened to  her,  and  jumping  on  her  little  mistress's  shoulder, 
curled  her  wet  tail  round  her  ears,  and  began  to  mew  and 
purr,  opening  and  shutting  her  green  eyes  between  every 
purr.  Much  as  Estelle  loved  her  favourite,  she  was  not  at 
all  pleased  at  her  present  proximity,  and  called  out  ener- 
getically for  deliverance.  All  laughed  long  and  heartily 
at  the  muddy  streaks  on  her  white  neck,  and  the  muddy 
tracks  on  her  white  apron,  and  she  looked  as  if  she  had  not 
made  up  her  mind,  whether  to  laugh  or  cry,  when  a  fresh 
burst  of  laughter  produced  a  complete  reaction,  and  a 
sudden  shower  of  tears  fell  precipitately  on  Aunt  Patty's 
lap. 

"  Take  care,  Estelle,'*  said  Edmund,  "  Aunt  Patty  has 
got  on  her  thunder  and  lightning  calico.  She  does  not  like 
to  have  it  rained  on." 

"  Aunt  Patty  had  a  favourite  frock,  the  ground-work  of 
which  was  a  deep  brown,  with  zig-zag  streaks  of  scarlet, 
darting  over  it.  Estelle  called  it  thunder  and  lightning,  and 
certainly  it  was  a  very  appropriate  similitude  for  a  child.  It 
always  was  designated  by  that  name,  and  Edmund  declared 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

that,  whenever  Aunt  Patty  wore  that  dress,  it  was  sure  to 
bring  a  storm.  She  was  now  solicited  by  many  voices  to 
bring  out  one  of  her  scrap-bags  for  their  amusement.  And 
she,  who  never  wearied  of  recalling  the  bright  images  of 
her  youthful  fancy,  or  the  impressions  of  later  years,  pro- 
duced a  gigantic  satchel,  and  undrawing  the  strings,  Estelle's 
little  hand  was  plunged  in,  and  grasping  a  piece  by  chance, 
smiles  played  like  sunbeams  on  her  tears,  when  she  found 
it  was  a  relic  of  old  Parson  Broomfield's  banian.  It  consisted 
of  broad  shaded  stripes,  of  an  iron-gray  colour,  a  very  sober 
and  ministerial-looking  calico.  "  Ah !"  said  Aunt  Patty — 
the  chords  of  memory  wakened  to  music  at  the  sight.  "  I 
remember  the  time  when  I  first  saw  Parson  Broomfield  wear 
that  banian.  I  was  a  little  girl  then,  and  my  mother  used 
to  send  me  on  errands  here  and  there,  in  a  little  carriage, 
made  purposely  for  me  on  account  of  my  lameness.  A  boy 
used  to  draw  me,  in  the  same  way  that  they  do  infants,  and 
everybody  stopped  and  said  something  to  the  poor  lame 
girl.  I  was  going  by  the  parsonage,  one  warm  summer 
morning,  and  the  parson  was  sitting  reading  under  a  large 
elm  tree,  that  grew  directly  in  front  of  his  door.  He  had  a 
bench  put  all  round  the  trunk,  so  that  weary  travellers  could 
stop  and  rest  under  its  shade.  He  was  a  blessed  man,  Par- 
son Broomfield — of  such  great  piety,  that  some  thought  if 
they  could  touch  the  hem  of  his  garment  they  would  have  a 
passport  to  heaven.  I  always  think  of  him  when  I  read  that 
beautiful  verse  in  Job :  '  The  young  men  saw  him  and 
trembled,  the  aged  arose  and  stood  up.'  Well,  there  he  sat, 
that  warm  summer  morning,  in  his  new  striped  banian, 
turned  back  from  his  neck,  and  turned  carelessly  over  one 
knee,  to  keep  it  from  sweeping  on  the  grass.  He  had  on 
black  satin  lasting  pantaloons,  and  a  black  velvet  Avaistcoat, 
that  made  his  shirt  collar  look  as  white  as  snow.  He  lifted 
his  eyes,  when  he  heard  the  wheels  of  my  carriage  rolling 
along,  and  made  a  sort  of  motion  for  me  to  stop.  '  Good 
morning,  little  Patty,'  said  he,  « I  hope  you  are  very  well 
this  beautiful  morning.'  We  always  thought  it  an  honour 
to  get  a  word  from  his  lips,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  could  walk  with- 
out a  crutch  the  whole  day.  He  was  very  kind  to  little 
children,  though  he  looked  so  grand  and  holy  in  the  pulpit, 
you  would  think  he  was  an  angel  of  light,  just  come  down 
there  from  the  skies." 
11 


162  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

"Did  he  preach  in  that  calico  frock?"  asked  Emma,  anx- 
ious for  the  dignity  of  the  ministerial  office. 

"  Oh  !  no,  child — all  in  solemn  black,  except  his  white 
linen  hands.  He  always  looked  like  a  saint  on  Sunday, 
walking  in  the  church  so  slow  and  stately,  yet  bowing  on 
the  right  and  left,  to  the  old,  white-headed  men,  that  waited 
for  him  as  for  the  consolation  of  Israel.  Oh !  he  was  a  bless- 
ed man,  and  he  is  in  glory  now.  Here,"  added  she,  taking 
a  piece  of  spotless  linen  from  a  white  folded  paper,  is  a  rem- 
nant of  the  good  man's  shroud.  I  saw  him  when  he  was 
laid  out,  with  his  hands  folded  on  his  breast,  and  his  Bible 
resting  above  them." 

"  Don't  they  have  any  Bibles  in  heaven  ?"  asked  little  Es- 
telle,  shrinking  from  contact  with  the  funereal  sample. 

"  No,  child  ;  they  will  read  there  without  books,  and  see 
without  eyes,  and  know  every  thing  without  learning.  But 
they  put  his  Bible  on  his  heart,  because  he  loved  it  so  in 
life,  and  it  seemed  to  be  company  for  him  in  the  dark  coffin 
and  lonely  grave." 

The  children  looked  serious,  and  Emma's  wistful  eyes, 
lifted  towards  heaven,  seemed  to  long  for  that  region  of  glo- 
rious intuition,  whither  the  beloved  pastor  of  Aunt  Patty's 
youth  was  gone.  Then  the  youngest  begged  her  to  tell 
them  something  more  lively,  as  talking  about  death,  and  the 
coffin,  and  grave,  made  them  melancholy  such  a  rainy  day. 

"  Here,"  said  Bessy,  "  is  a  beautiful  pink  and  white  mus- 
lin. The  figure  is  a  half  open  rosebud,  wilh  a  delicate 
cluster  of  leaves.  Who  had  a  dress  like  this,  Aunt  Patty  ?" 

"That  was  the  dress  your  mother  wore  the  first  time  she 
saw  your  father,"  answered  the  chronicler,  with  a  significant 
smile.  Bessy  clasped  her  hands  with  delight,  and  they  all 
gathered  close,  to  gaze  upon  an  object  associated  with  such 
an  interesting  era. 

"Didn't  she  look  sweet?"  said  Bessy,  looking  admiringly 
at  her  handsome  and  now  blushing  mother. 

"Yes  !  her  cheeks  were  the  colour  of  her  dress,  and  that  day 
she  had  a  wreath  of  roses  in  her  hair ;  for  Emma's  father  loved 
flowers,  and  made  her  ornament  herself  with  them  to  please 
his  eye.  It  was  about  sunset.  It  had  been  very  sultry,  and 
the  roads  were  so  dusty  we  could  scarcely  see  after  a  horse 
or  carriage  passed  by.  Emma  was  in  the  front  yard  water- 
ing some  plants,  when  a  gentleman  on  horseback  rodo 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  163 

slowly  along,  as  if  he  tried  to  make  as  little  dust  as  possible. 
He  rode  by  the  house  at  first,  then  turning  back,  he  came 
right  up  to  the  gate,  and,  lifting  up  his  hat,  bowed  down  to 
the  saddle.  He  was  a  tall,  dark-complexioned  young  man, 
who  sat  nobly  on  his  horse,  just  as  if  he  belonged  to  it. 
Emma,  your  mother  that  is,  set  down  her  watering  pot,  and 
made  a  sort  of  courtesy,  a  little  frightened  at  a  stranger  coming 
so  close  to  her,  before  she  knew  any  thing  about  it.  '  May 
I  trouble  you  for  a  glass  of  water  ?'  said  he,  with  another 
bow.  '  I  have  travelled  long,  and  am  oppressed  with  thirst.' 
Emma  courtesied  again,  and  blushed  too,  I  dare  say,  and 
away  she  went  for  a  glass  of  water,  which  she  brought  him 
with  her  own  hands.  Your  grandfather  had  come  to  the 
door  by  this  time,  and  he  said  he  never  saw  a  man  so  long 
drinking  a  glass  of  water  in  his  life.  As  I  told  you  before, 
it  had  been  a  terribly  sultry  day,  and  there  were  large 
thunder  pillars  leaning  down  black  in  the  west — a  sure  sign 
there  was  going  to  be  a  heavy  shower.  Your  grandfather 
came  out,  and  being  an  hospitable  man,  he  asked  the  stranger 
to  stop  and  rest  till  the  rain  that  was  coming  was  over.  He 
didn't  wait  to  be  asked  twice,  but  jumped  from  his  horse  and 
walked  in,  making  a  bow  at  the  door,  and  waiting  for  your 
mother  to  walk  in  first.  Well,  sure  enough,  it  did  rain  in 
a  short  time,  and  thunder,  and  lightning,  and  blow,  as  if  the 
house  would  come  down  ;  and  the  strange  gentleman  sat 
down  close  by  Emma,  and  tried  to  keep  her  from  being 
frightened,  for  she  looked  as  pale  as  death ;  and  when  the 
lightning  flashed  bright,  she  covered  up  her  face  with  her 
hands.  It  kept  on  thundering  and  raining  till  bed-time, 
when  your  grandfather  offered  him  a  bed,  and  told  him  he 
must  stay  till  morning.  Everybody  was  taken  with  him, 
for  he  talked  like  a  book,  and  looked  as  if  he  knew  more 
than  all  the  books  in  the  world.  He  told  his  name,  and  all 
about  himself — that  he  wras  a  young  lawyer  just  commencing 
business  in  a  town  near  by,  (the  very  town  we  are  now 
living  in  ;)  that  he  had  been  on  a  journey,  and  was  on  his 
way  home,  which  he  had  expected  to  reach  that  night.  He 
seemed  to  hate  to  go  away  so  the  next  morning,  that  your 
grandfather  asked  him  to  come  and  see  him  again — and  he 
took  him  at  his  word,  and  came  back  the  very  next  week. 
This  time  he  didn't  hide  from  anybody  what  he  came  for, 
for  he  courted  your  mother  in  good  earnest,  and  never  left 


164  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

her,  or  gave  her  any  peace,  till  she  had  promised  to  he  his 
wife,  which  I  helieve  she  .was  very  willing  to  be,  from  the 
first  night  she  saw  him." 

"  Nay,  Aunt  Patty,"  said  Mrs.  Worth,  "I  must  correct  you 
in  some  of  your  items  ;  your  imagination  is  a  little  too  vivid." 

Edmund  went  behind  his  mother's  chair,  and  putting  his 
hands  playfully  over  her  ears,  begged  Aunt  Patty  to  go  on, 
and  give  her  imagination  full  scope. 

"  And  show  us  the  wedding-dress,  and  tell  us  all  ahout  it," 
said  Bessy.  "  It  is  pleasanter  to  hear  of  mother's  wedding, 
than  Parson  Broomfield's  funeral." 

"  But  that's  the  way,  darling — a  funeral  and  a  wedding, 
a  hirthand  a  death,  all  mixed  up,  the  world  over.  We  must 
take  things  as  they  come,  and  be  thankful  for  all.  Do  you 
see  this  white  sprigged  satin,  and  this  bit  of  white  lace  ? 
The  wedding-dress  was  made  of  the  satin,  and  trimmed 
round  the  neck  and  sleeves  with  the  lace,  and  the  money  it 
cost  would  have  clothed  a  poor  family  fora  long  time.  But 
your  grandfather  said  he  had  but  one  daughter,  and  she 
should  be  well  fitted  out,  if  it  cost  him  all  he  had  in  the 
world.  And,  moreover,  he  had  a  son-in-law,  whom  he 
would  not  exchange  for  any  other  man  in  the  universe. 
When  Emma,  your  mother  that  is,  was  dressed  in  her  bridai 
finery,  with  white  blossoms  in  her  hair,  which  hung  in 
ringlets  down  her  rosy  cheeks,  you  might  search  the  coun- 
try round  for  a  prettier  and  fairer  bride — and  your  father 
looked  like  a  prince.  Parson  Broomfield  said  they  were  the 
handsomest  couple  he  ever  married — and,  bless  his  soul, 
they  were  the  last.  He  was  taken  sick  a  week  after  the 
wedding,  and  never  lifted  his  head  afterwards.  It  is  a 
blessed  thing  Emma  was  married  when  she  was,  for  I 
wouldn't  want  to  be  married  by  any  other  minister  in  the 
world  than  Parson  Broomfield." 

"Where's  your  husband,  Aunt  Patty?"  said  Estelle, 
suddenly. 

Edmund  and  Bessy  laughed  outright.  Emma  only 
smiled — she  feared  Aunt  Patty's  feelings  might  be  wounded. 

"  I  never  had  any,  child,"  replied  she,  after  taking  a 
large  pinch  of  snuff. 

"  What's  the  reason  ?"  persevered  Estelle. 

"Hush — Estelle,"  said  her  mother,  "little  girls  must  not 
ask  so  many  questions." 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  165 

"I'll  tell  you  the  reason,"  cried  Aunt  Patty,  "for  I'm 
never  ashamed  to  speak  the  truth.  No  one  ever  thought  ot 
marrying  me,  for  I  was  a  lame,  helpless,  and  homely  girl, 
without  a  cent  of  money  to  make  folks  think  one  pretty 
whether  I  was  or  not.  I  never  dreamed  of  having  sweet- 
hearts, but  was  thankful  for  friends,  who  were  willing  to 
bear  with  my  infirmities,  and  provide  for  my  comfort.  I 
don't  care  if  they  do  call  me  an  old  maid.  I'm  satisfied  with 
the  place  Providence  has  assigned  me,  knowing  it's  a  thou- 
sand times  better  than  I  deserve.  The  tree  that  stands  alone 
by  the  wayside  offers  shelter  and  shade  to  the  weary  travel- 
ler. It  was  not  created  in  vain,  though  no  blossom  nor  fruit 
may  hang  upon  its  boughs.  It  gets  its  portion  of  the  sun- 
shine and  dew,  and  the  little  birds  come  and  nestle  in  its 
branches." 

"  That  is  such  a  beautiful  image  of  Aunt  Patty's,"  whis- 
pered Bessy  ;  "  I  know  whom  she  means  by  the  tree  and  the 
little  birds.  But  tell  me,  mother,"  continued  she,  passing 
her  arm  fondly  round  her  neck,  and  looking  up  smilingly  in, 
her  face,  "  how  can  anybody  love  anybody  as  well  as  their 
own  father  and  mother?  How  can  they  be  willing  to  go 
away  from  home,  where  they  have  lived  all  their  lives,  to 
a  strange  place,  with  a  stranger,  too,  whom  they  have  never 
seen  but  a  little  while  before  ?  I'm  sure  I  wouldn't  go  away 
from  you,  and  father,  and  home,  if  they  piled  up  gold  enough 
to  reach  the  skies  to  tempt  me." 

Mrs.  Worth  passed  her  arm  round  the  waist  of  her  beau- 
tiful child,  and  asked  herself  whether  the  time  would  ever 
arrive,  when  she  would  feel  willing  to  transfer  such  a  trea- 
sure to  the  bosom  of  another.  Her  heart  imperatively  an- 
swered, No  !  and  she  wondered  at  the  power  which  had 
drawn  her,  as  if  by  enchantment,  from  the  home  of  her 
youth.  She  found  it  difficult  to  explain  to  the  simplicity  of 
childhood  the  influence  of  that  master  passion,  before  which 
the  ties  of  nature  yield  like  flax  in  the  flame ;  but  taking 
advantage  of  Bessy's  love  of  metaphor,  she  brought  the  truth 
to  her  mind,  through  the  medium  of  her  imagination. 

"  You  were  pleased  with  Aunt  Patty's  simile  of  the  tree 
and  little  birds,"  said  she.  "  Have  you  never  noticed,  Bessy, 
that  when  the  birds  are  very  young,  and  the  feathers  thin, 
and  the  wings  weak,  they  nestle  close  to  the  parent  bird, 
without  thinking  of  flying  into  the  blue  air,  and  seeking-the 


166  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

world  beyond.  But,  by  and  by,  theu'  wings  grow  strong, 
and  covered  with  beautiful  shining  feathers.  They  long  to 
try  their  strength,  and  they  fly  away  to  build  nests  of  their 
own.  And  if  they  meet  some  sweet  warbler  in  the  way, 
they  are  very  apt  to  go  in  company,  and  sing  and  work 
together." 

"  Oh,  yes  !"  exclaimed  Bessy,  "  I  remember  that  beau- 
tiful ballad  about  the  blackbird,  who  chose  his  mate,  and 
was  killed  by  a  gunner  in  the  vale.  Do  you  recollect  that 
sweet  verse,  after  the  bridegroom  saw  the  danger  ? 

"  Alarm'd,  the  lover  cried,  '  My  dear, 

Haste,  haste  away,  from  danger  fly — 
Here,  gunner,  turn  thy  vengeance  here, 

Oh  !  spare  my  love,  oh  let  me  die.' 
At  him  the  huntsman  took  his  aim — 
The  aim  he  took  was,  ah  !  too  true." — 

Bessy's  voice  choked.  The  sorrows  of  the  widowed  bird 
opened  the  sluices  of  her  sympathy,  and  she  could  not  go  on. 

"  Well,"  said  Edmund,  kindly  wishing  to  divert  her  at- 
tention, and  not  disposed  to  laugh  at  her  sensibility,  "  if 
we  are  all  birds,  let  us  see  what  kind  of  ones  we  are.  Ho- 
mer is  the  eagle,  because  he's  ambitious,  and  wants  to  be  a 
great  man.  Yes,  he  shall  be  the  '  bird  of  Jove,  with  thun- 
der in  his  train.'  You  know  that  charming  poem  of  Mont- 
gomery's, where  he  compares  Burns  to  all  the  birds  of  the 
air.  Emma  is  « in  tenderness  the  dove' — and  Bessy, 

'  Oh !  more  than  all  beside,  is  she 
The  nightingale  in  love.' 

Little  Estelle  is  the  humming-bird, 

'  From  flower  to  flower, 
Exhaling  sweet  perfume.' 

"  Don't  you  think,  mother,  we  make  a  charming  aviary 
for  you  ?" 

"But  you've  left  out  yourself,  brother,"  said  Emma, 
'the  best  of  the  whole, — what  will  you  be  ?" 

"  Oh  !  he  shall  be  the  bird  of  paradise,"  interrupted 
Bessy ;  "  the  most  beautiful  of  all ;  and  I  think  Homer 
ought  to  be  the  owl, — he's  so  moping  and  fond  of  being 
alone.  Then  father  can  be  the  eagle.  But  what  will 
mother  be?" 

"Never  mind  me,  children,"  observed  the  mother, — 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  167 

"but  you  must  not  give  such  an  emblem  to  Homer, — he 
would  not  like  it,  were  he  to  hear  it ;  and  even  in  jest  you 
must  always  beware  of  wounding  the  feelings  of  each 
other.  He  stays  alone  in  his  own  room  that  he  may  study 
without  interruption;  for  you  know  he  enters  college  in 
the  autumn.  He  is  ambitious,  as  Edmund  says,  and  who- 
ever becomes  a  great  man,  must  first  be  a  studious  youth." 

Though  the  rain  continued  unabated,  the  evening  passed 
off  cheerily  round  a  glowing  fire.  They  forgot  the  dismal 
scenery  abroad,  in  the  contemplation  of  their  in-door  com- 
forts. It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Aunt  Patty  had 
exhausted  the  store-house  of  memory,  because  we  have 
interrupted  the  thread  of  her  discourse.  Scherezade  her- 
self could  not  excel  her  in  the  number  and  variety  of  her 
domestic  histories  ;  and  after  supper  was  over,  and  the  other 
children  seated  round  the  table  at  their  different  occupations 
of  reading  and  sewing,  she  sat  in  a  corner  with  Estelle  at 
her  knees,  entertaining  her  with  her  scrap  erudition. 

Ought  any  thing  to  be  regarded  as  insignificant  or 
ridiculous,  that  draws  the  mind  from  the  narrow  limits  of 
self,  opens  the  avenues  of  human  sympathy,  and  adds  to 
the  sum  of  human  happiness  ?  Is  not  Aunt  Patty,  the 
lonely,  crippled,  and  infirm,  thus  distilling  the  honey  of  life 
from  its  waste  flowers  and  weeds,  an  object  worthy  of  admi- 
ration and  respect  ? 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  children  were  faithful  to  the  duties  their  father  en- 
joined upon  them  in  his  parting  words,  and  the  good  angel 
of  the  mail  was  seldom  allowed  to  depart  without  bearing 
tokens  of  love  to  the  wayfaring  man.  They  had  frequent 
tidings  of  him,  as  he  pursued  his  journey  safely  and  pros- 
perously in  spite  of  wind  or  weather.  Whenever  it  was 
announced  that  a  letter  from  Father  had  arrived,  there  was 
a  full  concert  of  joyous  sounds,  and  an  eager  rushing  to  the 
mother's  side,  while  she  read  the  precious  communication. 
Aunt  Patty  always  put  on  her  spectacles  and  took  a  pinch 


168  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP- BAG. 

of  snuff;  to  hear  it  the  better,  and  a  beam  of  satisfaction 
even  lighted  up  the  misanthropic  brow  of  Homer,  for  he 
venerated  his  father,  and  remembered  his  farewell  counsel. 
Mr.  Worth  had  not  yet  reached  the  end  of  his  journey,  but 
he  improved  every  pause  to  hold  communion  with  the  be- 
ings, more  endeared,  if  possible,  by  absence  and  increasing 
distance.  His  letters  were  sterling  gold  from  the  heart's 
treasury.  They  were  fraught  with  breathings  of  affection, 
emanations  of  soul,  counsels  of  wisdom,  admonitions  of 
love,  tender  reminiscences  of  the  past,  and  kindling  hopes 
of  the  future.  They  were  sometimes  addressed  to  his 
wife  alone.  In  these  the  gallantry  of  the  lover,  a  dash  of 
the  chivalrous  spirit  of  olden  times,  mingled  with  the 
confiding  tenderness  of  the  husband,  and  gave  a  charm  to 
his  letters  that  a  woman  only  could  appreciate.  Sometimes 
they  were  addressed  to  his  Wife  &/•  Co.;  and  it  was  pleas- 
ing to  see  how  perfectly  he  could  adapt  himself  to  the 
peculiarities  of  every  juvenile  mind,  from  the  sensitive 
pride  of  Homer,  to  the  infantine  simplicity  of  Estelle. 
The  answers  to  these  letters  were  so  characteristic  of  the 
young  writers,  that  we  cannot  but  think  they  will  prove 
interesting  to  the  reader.  We  will  give  a  few  specimens, 
believing  them  the  living  transcripts  of  the  youthful  mind. 
Homer  never  suffered  his  brother  or  sisters  to  read  his 
epistles,  and  of  course  he  would  not  allow  a  stranger's  eye 
to  scan  the  lines.  We  will  begin  with  Edmund,  whose 
thoughts,  clear  and  bright  as  the  sun,  were  open  to  the 
scrutiny  of  all.  Edmund  was  the  most  unselfish  of  human 
beings.  It  will  be  observed  how  seldom  he  speaks  of 
himself. 

EDMUND'S  LETTER  TO  HIS  FATHER. 

"Dearest  Father: — Your  letter,  received  last  night,  was 
a  family  feast.  We  all  gathered  round  mother  with  hungry 
ears  to  hear  it ;  and  sweet  as  her  voice  always  is,  it  never 
sounded  sweeter  than  it  did  then.  You  describe  every  thing 
so  minutely,  we  feel  as  if  we  were  with  you,  and  I  now  know 
how  true  it  is,  what  you  said  about  letter-writing.  Every 
thing  that  takes  place,  we  think,  '  That  will  interest  father : 
we  will  be  sure  to  put  that  in  our  next  letter,' — but  when  we 
have  the  pen  in  hand,  and  see  it  on  paper,  it  doesn't  appear 
half  as  well.  I  have  been  reading  a  great  deal,  and  study- 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  169 

ing  too.  I  want  to  tell  you  how  much,  I  have  read  in 
Greek  and  Latin,  when  you  return,  and  how  far  I  have  got 
in  mathematics.  But  I  ought  not  to  speak  of  my  studying 
by  the  side  of  Homer :  he  is  at  his  books  from  morning  till 
night,  and,  I  have  no  doubt,  will  be  a  very  great  man  one 
of  these  days.  We  go  to  Mr.  Farnham's  office  every  day 
to  recite,  though  the  mud  is  sometimes  up  to  our  knees. 
You  have  reached  better  regions  than  ours,  or  poor  Faithful 
would  be  lost  in  the  slough  of  despondency.  Of  all  months 
in  the  year,  I  believe  March  is  the  most  dismal : — it  is 
neither  spring  nor  winter,  but  the  mud  and  the  snow  seem 
righting  all  the  time.  Bessy  saw  a  little  patch  of  green 
grass  yesterday,  peeping  out  on  the  edge  of  the  pond,  (she 
calls  it  lake,)  on  the  south  side  of  the  house,  and  she  called 
us  all  from  the  four  points  of  the  compass,  to  come  and 
worship  the  first  herald  of  spring.  O  father,  I  have  a 
secret  to  tell  you,  but  you  must  not  breathe  it  to  the  winds, 
lest  they  should  bear  it  back  to  Bessy's  ear.  I  found  a 
paper  the  other  day,  covered  with  certain  strange  characters, 
which,  upon  examining  closely,  I  discovered  to  be  verses 
of  poetry,  crossed  and  recrossed, — but  real  genuine  rhymes, 
in  Bessy's  handwriting.  She  actually  cried  when  I 
showed  them  to  her,  and  would  not  be  pacified  till  I  gave 
them  up.  They  were  upon  your  absence,  and  some  of  the 
lines  were  very  pretty.  I  recollect  two  or  three : — 

'  O  father,  dear !  why  thus  your  stay  prolong  ? 
The  days  are  darksome,  and  seem  twice  as  long; 
Whene'er  I  look  upon  the  setting  sun 
I  think  of  you,  and  wish  your  journey  done ; 
And,  though  I  loved  you,  dearly  loved  before, — 
I  do  believe  I  love  you  more  and  more.' 

Now  don't  you  think  our  azure-eyed  Bessy  will  be  a 
poetess  by-and-by  ?  Her  eyes  have  the  true  poetical,  up- 
ward turn,  and  she  never  sees  a  volume  of  poems  without 
a  bright  glow  of  delight  on  her  cheeks.  Emma  has  not 
been  as  well  as  usual  for  a  few  days :  she  caught  cold,  and 
has  a  troublesome  cough.  I  often  fear  that  she  is  too  good 
for  this  world, — too  gentle,  and  too  weak ;  I  don't  believe 
Ernma  ever  told  an  untruth,  or  committed  an  evil  act  in  her 
whole  life :  she  always  seems  thinking  about  heaven.  I 
must  not  forget  to  tell  you  an  anecdote  of  Estelle: — the 
other  day  I  found  her  weeping  in  a  little  corner  by  herself; 


170  AUNT   PATTl's   SCRAP-BAG. 

it  was  a  long  time  before  she  would  tell  me  what  was  the 
matter  with  her ;  at  last  she  said  she  was  afraid  she  was 
going  to  die.  '  Why,  little  Estelle,  you  look  the  picture 
of  health  !'  « Because, — cause,'  answered  she,  sobbing,  '  I 
heard  Aunt  Patty  tell  somebody  I  was  too  smart  to  live  long.' 
Really,  dear  father,  she  is  the  most  amusing  little  creature 
you  ever  knew, — she  and  Aunt  Patty  together;  I  mean 
Aunt  Patty  is  amusing  too,  in  her  odd  way, — and  is  she 
not  the  best  and  kindest  of  human  beings,  always  excepting 
my  beloved  mother?  I  cannot  bear  to  leave  you,  dear 
father,  but  I  have  promised  Emma  the  other  half  of  the 
sheet,  as  we  write  together,  and  I  will  not  encroach  on  her 
limits,  as  she  always  follows  the  golden  rule,  without 
deviating  one  hair's-breadth.  I  find  I  have  done  it  already, 
for  there  is  only  one  page  left.  I  cannot  help  it  now,  so 
pray  forgive  me,  and  believe  me  your  affectionate  son, 

"  EDMUND." 

"  Dear  and  beloved  Father : — Edmund  wrote  the  above, 
two  or  three  days  ago,  and  I  would  have  finished  it 
immediately,  but  company  came  so  very  unexpectedly. 
The  riding  is  so  bad  we  never  thought  of  seeing  a 
human  being, — but  just  as  we  were  all  nicely  seated 
round  the  evening  fire,  and  all  of  us  feeling  so  quiet  and 
happy, — that  is,  as  happy  as  we  can  be  without  you,  a 
carriage  drove  up  into  the  yard,  and  we  could  not  think 
who  it  was.  It  was  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wharton,  with  Francis 
and  Laura,  all  on  their  way  home  to  Boston,  from  a  visit 
to  a  friend  who  lives  far  in  the  country,  where  they 
have  been  detained  a  long  time.  You  remember,  they 
stopped  here  when  they  were  going,  and  it  was  good 
sleighing,  and  they  were  all  wrapped  up  in  buffalo-skins, 
and  their  horses  had  more  strings  of  bells  than  I  ever  saw 
before.  They  were  obliged  to  leave  their  sleigh  and  return 
in  a  carriage,  and  they  are  going  to  rest  here  several  days. 
We  were  very  glad  to  see  them,  for  they  are  so  lively  and 
agreeable  :  but  I  don't  think  I  ever  would  be  tired  of  being 
with  ourselves,  alone.  I  love  stillness,  and  I  love  home 
just  for  itself,  and  because  we  can  do  just  as  we  please ; 
and  when  any  one  is  visiting  here,  we  must  give  up  our 
usual  pursuits,  and  do  every  thing  to  entertain  the  company. 
I  am  afraid  I  am  very  selfish,  and  will  try  to  correct  myself. 
They  have  all  indulged  me  so  much,  and  been  so  kind  and 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  171 

tender,  there  is  great  danger  of  my  thinking  more  than  I 
ought  of  my  own  gratification.  They  always  give  me  the 
warmest  seat  in  the  room,  because  I  am  apt  to  take  cold  ; 
if  we  ride  abroad,  I  must  always  wear  the  warmest  cloak 
or  shawl,  and  I  must  ride  oftener  than  anybody  else,  be- 
cause, they  say,  the  exercise  will  strengthen  me : — and  I 
can  do  so  little  in  return  for  them.  Edmund  is  the  kindest 
brother  that  ever  was  in  the  world :  I  believe  he  would 
walk  barefoot  to  the  end  of  the  universe,  if  his  mother  or 
sisters  asked  him.  Francis  Wharton  seems  a  good  boy, 
but  he  is  not  like  Edmund, — he  is  more  boisterous  and  rude. 
I  cannot  think  what  pleasure  there  is  in  making  a  noise  : 
it  only  gives  me  a  headache.  Laura  is  a  very  fashionable 
little  Miss,  and,  I  have  no  doubt,  thinks  me  quite  a  dowdy. 
Bessy  admires  her  very  much,  and  she  says  Bessy  is  a 
great  beauty.  Oh  !  I  hope  you  will  come  home  very  soon, 
for  we  all  long  to  see  you  so  much.  My  heart  aches  to  be 
near  you  once  more, — to  feel  your  kind  hand  on  my  head, 
and  your  good-night  kiss  on  my  cheek.  Dearest  father,  if 
it  is  so  hard  to  part  from  friends  for  a  little  time  here,  how 
can  we  ever  leave  them,  and  think  we  shall  never,  never 

return  ?" Here  a  tear,  which  blotted  the  next  word, 

indicated  a  sad  foreboding  in  the  heart  of  the  young 
invalid. 

,  Bessy  had  the  privilege  of  writing  with  red  ink,  cross- 
ways,  in  her  mother's  letter ;  and  it  was  a  colour  suited 
well  to  her  glowing  imagination. 

"  Dear  Father,"  said  she,  "  it  is  a  pity  that  I  am  younger 
than  Edmund  and  Emma,  for  they  tell  you  all  the  news 
before  my  turn  comes.  Fanny  Wharton  has  told  me  so 
many  beautiful  things  about  the  city,  it  makes  me  long  to 
visit  it.  She  goes  to  the  theatre  very  often,  and  she  says 
every  thing  seems  just  like  a  fairy-tale,  so  brilliant  and 
changing  all  the  time.  Father,  if  you  get  very  rich  while 
you  are  gone,  you  must  take  us  all  to  the  theatre  and 
museum,  and  to  see  all  the  fine  things  in  all  the  cities.  I 
don't  think  I  should  care  any  thing  about  balls  and  parties, 
but  I  do  want  to  see  those  bright,  strange  things,  such  as  I 
dream  about  so  often. — Oh  !  I  had  such  a  wonderful  dream, 
I  must  relate  it:  you  told  me  I  might  write  a  dream,  if  I 
hadn't  any  thing  else  to  say.  I  thought  I  saw  a  large 
clock, — so  large,  that  it  reached  up  to  the  skies,  and  it  went 


172  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

down,  all  out  of  sight;  the  hands  looked  as  big  as  iron  bar?, 
and  when  it  struck,  it  sounded  as  loud  as  thunder.  Ever} 
time  it  struck,  it  said  '  Time,  Time,  Time,' — so  deep  anii 
solemn,  it  made  me  feel  trembling  all  over.  Wasn't  that  a 
strange  dream  for  a  little  girl  like  me  1  Aunt  Patty  says, 
it  means  that  something  great  is  going  to  happen  to  me.  I 
know,  when  I  went  to  bed  that  night,  I  laid  awake,  think- 
ing how  strange  it  was  that  we  were  in  this  world  now, 
and  wouldn't  be  here  by-and-by,  and  trying  to  think  what 
the  difference  was  between  time  and  eternity.  It  seemed 
to  me,^and  perhaps  it  was  very  wicked, — that  if  I  thought 
about  it  long  enough,  I  could  find  out  how  it  was,  that  God 
never  began  to  be.  Every  night  these  thoughts  came  upon 
me,  and,  I  cannot  help  it,  I  lie  and  look  up  to  the  moon 
and  stars,  and  things  come  into  my  mind  that  I  never  read 
or  heard  about,  and  it  seems  as  if  angels  told  them  to  me. 
Estelle  just  came  to  me  and  said,  '  Tell  father,  Aunt  Patty 
don't  give  me  too  much  to  eat, — I  don't  mean  to  be  an 
animal.'  A  lady  called  here  yesterday  to  see  Mrs.  Whar- 
ton,  who  offended  Aunt  Patty  very  much.  '  Why,  how 
homely  little  Estelle  grows,'  said  she ;  'she  is  really  getting 
quite  course.'  'Ask  the  lady  to  look  in  the  glass,'  said 
Aunt  Patty.  Everybody  laughed,  and  the  lady  didn't 
look  pleased, — she  wasn't  pleased  with  any  thing.  '  Why, 
Emma  is  quite  deformed,'  said  she  ;  'one  shoulder  is  larger 
than  the  other.'  '  I'd  rather  have  a  crooked  back  than  a 
crooked  mind,'  retorted  Aunt  Patty.  You  know  poor 
Emma  is  weak,  and  cannot  sit  very  straight ;  and  I  think 
it  was"  cruel  to  say  any  thing  to  hurt  her  feelings.  I 
thought  the  lady  had  a  very  cross  look,  and,  as  she  was 
squint-eyed,  perhaps  she  couldn't  see  right.  Oh !  pray 
forgive  this  big  blot,  for  Frank  Wharton  pushed  my  arm 
on  purpose,  because  I  wouldn't  get  up  and  play  with  him. 
Please  write  me  a  letter  all  to  myself,  that  I  can  keep  ;  and 
I  will  keep  it  so  precious,  no  one  shall  know  its  place. 
You  don't  know  how  much  we  all  love  you — 

"  Farewell!  my  tongue  or  pen  can  never  tell 
The  flames  of  love  that  in  my  bosom  dwell. 

"  BESSY." 

Bessy,  like  most  juvenile  poets,  was  prone  to  extrava- 
gance in  her  expressions  of  affection,  but  her  father  knew 


AUNT   PATTY  S   SCRAP-BAG.  173 

how  to   appreciate  them ;    and,   doubtless,   these   artless 
effusions  were  priceless  in  his  estimation. 

Shall  we  follow  the  wife  to  her  lonely  chamber,  whither 
she  has  retired  after  the  children  have  separated  for  the 
night,  and  steal  a  glance  at  the  sheet  on  which  she  is  pour- 
ing out  her  soul  unto  her  husband  ?  There,  like  the  lovely 
Geraldine,  "all  in  her  night-robe  loose,  she  sits  reclined," 
"  o'er  her  dear  bosom  strays  her  hazle  hair,"  while  she 
traces  on  the  silent  page  before  her  the  thoughts  she  had 
been  garnering  up  through  the  day.  Foolish  children  !  to 
think  their  mother  would  steal  all  the  stirring  incidents  of 
the  day,  and  leave  them  nothing  to  relate.  That  page  is 
the  heart's  scroll  unrolled, — a  tablet  of  pure,  elevated,  kin- 
dling thoughts,  and  warm,  deep,  yea,  unfathomable  love, — a 
love  far  more  deep  and  intense  than  when,  in  Aunt  Patty's 
legend,  she  stood  in  white  satin  and  lace,  the  handsomest 
bride  Parson  Bloomfield  ever  united  in  the  holy  bands  of 
matrimony.  Angels  guard  thee  in  thy  retirement,  thou 
faithful  wife  and  tender  mother !  We  will  not  invade  thy 
hallowed  sanctuary.  Thy  lamp  is  the  last  that  glimmers 
on  the  darkness  of  the  neighbourhood  ;  and  many  an  eye 
that  looks  up  from  a  sick  and  restless  pillow  on  the  mystery 
of  night,  blesses  thee ;  and  many  a  sad  heart  likens  thee 
to  that  cheering  ray. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FRANK  and  Laura  Wharton  remained  several  weeks 
with  their  young  country  friends,  in  consequence  of  the 
almost  impassable  state  of  the  roads.  There  were  two 
members  of  the  family  who  lamented  their  protracted  stay, — 
Homer,  who  always  looked  upon  strangers  with  distrust 
and  dislike,  and  Emma,  whose  feeble  nerves  shrunk  from 
contact  with  those  whose  animal  spirits  effervesced  so 
boisterously  as  Frank's,  and  whose  refined  simplicity  was 
little  pleased  with  the  fine-lady  airs  of  Laura.  Edmund's 
joyous  nature  found  something  congenial  in  the  gayety  and 
warmth  of  Frank's  character,  and  Bessy's  ardent  imagina- 


174 


AUNT   PATTY  S   SCRAP-BAG. 


tion  was  completely  captivated  by  Laura's  over-wrought 
description  of  theatrical  splendours  and  fashionable  amuse- 
ments. Mrs.  Worth  saw,  with  some  maternal  fear,  this 
new  influence  exercised  on  her  daughter's  susceptible  mind, 
but  she  trusted  it  would  pass  away  like  one  of  her  own 
vivid  dreams.  Mrs.  Wharton  had  been  the  friend  of  her 
youth,  but  though  a  very  charming  maiden,  she  did  not 
prove  a  judicious  mother, — believing  excessive  indulgence 
a  parent's  crowning  glory. 

"  I  never  had  the  heart  to  deny  my  children  any  thing," 
she  would  often  say  to  her  friend.  "  You  have  more  reso- 
lution than  I  have.  I  should  fear  to  lose  their  affection,  if 
I  refused  to  gratify  their  wishes." 

"  Do  you  not  think  my  children  love  me  ?"  asked  Mrs. 
Worth. 

"  Yes :  I  never  saw  children  so  affectionate  or  obedient : 
a  look  from  you  has  more  effect  than  a  thousand  words 
from  me.  But  your  children  are  very  different  from  mine. 
You  must  have  perceived  how  very  difficult  mine  are  to 
manage." 

Mrs.  Worth  smiled.  She  believed  all  children  difficult  to 
manage,  who  were  not  accustomed  to  be  controlled  from  in- 
fancy ;  and  she  felt  very  certain,  that  if  the  superfluous 
energy  of  Frank,  and  the  luxuriant  taste  of  Laura,  had  been 
earlier  restrained  and  directed,  they  would  only  have 
strengthened  and  adorned  the  characters  they  now  threat- 
ened to  deform. 

At  length  a  mild,  bright,  genial  morning  succeeded  to  a 
week  of  clouds  and  east  winds.  Glimpses  of  green  were 
seen  on  the  edges  of  streams,  that  now  rolled  in  the  glad- 
ness of  vernal  freedom,  reflecting  in  their  waters  the  intense 
blue  of  a  cloudless  sky.  Here  and  there  a  large  flock  of 
SAvallows  floated  like  a  dark  wave  overhead,  showing  that 
the  "  time  of  singing-birds  was  coming,"  and  that  the  winged 
wanderers  were  all  about  to  return  from  a  more  southern 
clime.  Bessy  ran  into  the  room  in  a  perfect  glow  of  rap 
ture.  "  Look,  mother,"  exclaimed  she,  holding  up  a  pale, 
small,  delicate  blue  flower,  unprotected  by  a  single  green, 
leaf,  "  I  have  found  the  first  flower  of  Spring.  Here  is 
a  Houstonia  cerulea,  that  I  have  plucked  in  yonder  field 
It  looked  like  a  star  shining  through  the  darkness." 

"Really,  Bessy,"  said  Frank,  laughing  loudly,   "one 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  175 

would  think  you  had  found  a  string  of  diamonds,  or  a  purse 
of  gold,  instead  of  this  little,  old,  pinched  flower." 

"  She  talks  as  if  she  had  found  an  exotic,"  said  Laura. 

Bessy  blushed,  and  thought  it  very  likely,  that  in  com- 
parison with  the  exotics  of  the  greenhouse,  her  little  spring 
flower  wv»uld  dwindle  into  insignificance.  She  felt  ashamed 
of  her  enthusiasm,  and  the  glow  faded  from  her  cheek. 

"Let  us  all  take  a  walk  and  gather  flowers,"  said  Ed- 
mund, "  Bessy's  star  shall  guide  us  on  our  way." 

This  proposition  was  hailed  with  joy  by  the  youthful 
party,  and  Bessy  forgot  her  mortification  in  the  excitement 
of  the  preparation.  Emma,  whose  delicacy  of  health  pre- 
cluded her  from  such  an  enjoyment  at  this  season  of  the  year, 
shawled  and  bonnetted  the  little  Estelle,  who  kept  jumping 
up  and  down  the  whole  time,  making  the  operation  almost 
impracticable,  in  the  exuberance  of  her  glee.  She  lingered 
on  the  threshold,  after  the  gay  pedestrians  had  departed, 
till  their  merry  laugh  died  on  her  ear,  then  turned  away 
with  a  sigh.  The  soft,  blue  sky,  the  murmur  of  the  rivulet, 
the  song  of  the  birds,  and  the  April  flower,  instead  of  ex- 
citing her  spirits  to  buoyancy  and  mirth,  filled  her  heart 
with  a  tender  sadness,  which  longed  to  gush  forth  in  tears. 
The  gay  sports  of  childhood — the  long  walk  in  the  open  air 
— "  the  hop,  skip  and  jump,"  in  which  young  and  elastic 
limbs  delight,  were  not  for  her. 

"  I  wish  I  were  strong  and  healthy,"  said  she,  seating 
herself  again  near  the  fire,  and  pressing  her  hand  on  her 
aching  side  ;  "  one  must  be  so  happy  when  they  can  forget 
the  body,  and  let  it  do  just  as  it  pleases." 

Homer,  who  was  the  only  person  then  present,  and  who 
was  leaning  over  a  book,  with  his  hand  placed  over  both 
ears,  to  exclude  every  noise,  turned  hastily  round  at  the 
sound  of  her  voice,  for  he  did  not  like  to  be  interrupted ; 
there  was  a  frown  upon  his  brow,  and  an  impatient  motion 
of  the  lip.  But  there  was  something  in  the  drooping  atti- 
tude of  Emma,  and  her  pale,  dejected  countenance,  that  ap- 
pealed to  his  sympathy,  and  painfully  recalled  his  father's 
parting  words.  She  was  gazing  in  the  fire,  and  large  tears 
slowly  chased  each  other  down  her  cheeks.  "  Emma,  what 
is  the  matter  ?"  said  he,  taking  a  seat  by  her  side — "  what 
makes  you  look  so  sorrowful  ?  Surely  you  don't  care  about 
walking  with  that  boisterous  Frank  and  his  silly  little  sister." 


176  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

Emma  was  touched  by  the  unusual  kind  ness  of  Homer's 
manner,  and  her  tears  flowed  faster.  "  I  don't  know  what 
is  the  matter  with  me,"  said  she,  "  only  I  am  nervous  and 
foolish,  and,  I  am  afraid,  selfish  too.  For  when  I  heard 
them  so  merry  and  laughing,  I  felt  as  if  I  must  cry,  or  my 
heart  would  break.  O  brother,  you  don't  know  how  hard 
it  is,  when  one  is  so  very  young-,  to  feel  as  weak  and  lan- 
guid as  1  do  sometimes  ;  and  to  think,  too,  that  I  may  never 
live  to  be  much  older." 

"  Don't  talk  so,  Emma,  don't.  You  know  you  have  been 
better  than  ever  this  winter,  and  when  the  weather  gets 
warm,  and  you  can  ride  abroad  more,  and  walk  in  the  gar- 
den, and  attend  to  the  flowers,  you  will  be  in  better  spirits." 

"  But  I  am  so  useless,"  said  Emma,  "yet  everybody  is 
so  kind  to  me.  I  sometimes  feel  very  willing  to  die  ;  and 
think  it  is  a  beautiful  thing  to  die  young,  before  one  knows 
any  thing  of  the  wickedness  of  the  world.  Then,  again,  to 
leave  every  one  we  love,  and  lie  down  alone  in  the  cold 
grave — oh  !  it's  a  dreadful  thought !" 

Emma  involuntarily  gave  expression  to  feelings  which  had 
often  chilled  her  veins  at  the  midnight  hour,  and  saddened 
her  noonday  meditations.  She  so  seldom  spake  of  her  suf- 
ferings and  fears,  that  Homer  was  greatly  shocked  and  af- 
fected by  her  desponding  expressions.  He  felt  drawn  to- 
wards her  by  a  tenderness  such  as  he  had  never  felt  before, 
and  resolved  that  he  would  henceforth  endeavour  to  contri- 
bute to  her  happiness  and  comfort.  He  had  always  stood 
aloof  from  his  brothers  and  sisters,  refusing  to  share  in  their 
joys  or  their  sorrows,  till  they  ceased  to  look  for  his  partici- 
pation in  either.  Emma,  sad  and  sickly,  left  behind,  because 
unable  to  unite  in  the  active  enjoyments  of  childhood,  be- 
came, from  this  moment,  a  thousand  times  dearer  to  him 
than  the  blooming  Bessy,  or  rosy  Estelle.  He  put  his  arm 
soothingly  round  her,  a  caressing  motion  so  strange  in  the 
cold,  repelling  Homer,  that  Emma  lifted  her  eyes  wonder- 
ingly  to  his  face  to  prove  his  identity. 

"  You  must  not  give  way  to  such  gloomy  thoughts,  Em- 
ma," said  he  ;  "  that  noisy  Frank  has  given  you  a  headache, 
and  made  you  nervous  and  weak.  When  I  am  a  man,  and 
father  gets  the  fortune  he  has  gone  to  secure,  I  mean  to  have 
a  house  of  my  own,  and  you  shall  come  and  live  with  me. 
Edmund  will  be  a  fine  gentleman,  and  carry  Bessy  into  the 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  177 

great  world,  and  show  her  the  theatres  and  museums  that 
Laura  tells  so  much  about,  but  you  and  I  despise  such 
things,  and  we'll  live  together,  and  have  nothing  to  do  with 
the  rest  of  the  world.  We'll  have  a  library  as  large  as  the 
Alexandrian  library,  and  fine  pictures  and  statues  from  Eu- 
rope. I  would  like  a  wall  built  round  the  house,  and  a 
drawbridge  that  would  lift  up,  so  that  no  one  could  enter 
unless  we  chose  to  admit  them." 

"  But  don't  you  mean  to  marry  when  you  get  old  enough, 
Homer,"  asked  Emma,  her  spirits  reviving  at  the  unusual 
kindness  of  the  young  misanthropist. 

"  No,  never,"  answered  he,  with  a  look  of  scorn,  "  I 
would  as  soon  live  in  Aunt  Patty's  scrap-bag.  All  women 
are  foolish,  except  my  mother." 

"  But,  perhaps,  some  of  the  little  girls  may  grow  wise 
enough  for  you,  Homer,  by  the  time  you  are  ready,"  said 
Emma,  now  smiling  through  her  tears.  "  Who  knows  but 
that  Laura  Wharton  may  be  a  wise  woman  yet  ?  I  heard 
her  say,  she  thought  you  a  great  deal  handsomer  than  Ed- 
mund, and  that  she  expected  you  would  make  a  great  man." 

"  You  know  she  never  said  that  of  me,"  replied  Homer, 
angrily,  "  except  in  ridicule.  I  had  rather  any  one  would 
stab  me  than  laugh  at  me." 

"  No,  indeed,  brother  ;  she  said  it  to  Frank,  when  she  did 
not  know  any  one  heard  her.  And  he  laughed,  and  said 
you  had  as  much  beauty  as  a  thunder-cloud." 

A  gleam,  like  lightning,  darted  across  the  '  thunder-cloud.' 
It  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  be  thought  superior  to  Edmund, 
even  by  Frank's  silly  little  sister.  Homer,  in  this  inter- 
view, had  manifested  two  unwonted  human  emotions  ;  sym- 
pathy for  sorrow,  and  susceptibility  to  praise. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  young  pedestrians  continued  their 
morning  walk,  rejoicing.  Even  the  little  city  maiden,  who 
was  too  genteel  to  wear  any  thing  but  kid  shoes,  which  were 
soon  sadly  soiled  by  the  mud,  forgot  her  measured  pace,  and 
bounded  and  ran  with  the  rest.  If  they  saw  a  green  patch 
on  the  dark  ground-work  of  the  soil,  there  was  a  simultaneous 
shout,  and  a  rush  towards  the  spot,  striving  to  see  who  should 
reach  it  first.  Edmund  always  reached  the  goal  first, 
though  Frank  was  the  first  to  start,  and  was  sure  to  push 
down  some  one  in  his  way,  whether  accidentally  or  inten- 
tionally it  is  difficult  to  solve.  Once  he  overturned  Estelle, 
12 


178  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

and  threw  her  flat  on  her  face  in  the  mud,  bend  ing  the  win 
of  her  bonnet  in  such  a  grotesque  manner,  it  threw  him  inti 
convulsions  of  laughter. 

"  Oh !  Frank,  how  can  you  be  so  rude,"  cried  Bessy, 
wiping  the  dirt  from  Estelle's  cheek's  and  nose ;  "  see  how 
you  have  spoiled  her  pretty  bonnet." 

Frank,  who  was  as  good-natured  as  he  was  thoughtless, 
checked  his  mirth  at  the  sight  of  Estelle's  tears,  and  insisted 
upon  carrying  her  in  his  arms,  as  an  expiation  for  the  of- 
fence. The  only  vengeance  which  Estelle  threatened  was 
to  tell  Aunt  Patty;  and  when  Frank  put  on  a  rueful 
look  of  penitence,  she  promised  to  remit  even  that. 

"  Let  us  walk  to  Madame  Le  Grande's,"  said  Edmund, 
"  Laura  will  be  delighted  with  her,  she  is  so  fashionable, 
and  a  French  lady  besides." 

"  Oh,  yes  !"  exclaimed  Laura,  "  I  know  from  her  name 
she  must  be  charming.  Has  she  any  daughters  ?" 

"Only  one,"  answered  Edmund,  "a  ve.ry  accomplished 
young  lady,  named  Victorine." 

"  Oh  !  what  a  beautiful  name  !"  cried  Laura,  "  I  long  to 
see  her.  But  why  didn't  you  tell  me  sooner  ?  I  have  on 
only  an  every-day  frock,  and  I  couldn't  think  of  calling  there 
now." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Frank,  "  Madame  Le  Grande  and 
Mademoiselle  Victorine  both  will  excuse  it.  People  who 
live  in  great  style  are  never  as  particular  in  their  dress  as 
others." 

"  Must  we  parlez-vous  Francois  to  Mademoiselle  Victo- 
rine, or  does  she  understand  English  well  ?"  asked  Frank, 
laughing. 

"  She  can  speak  both  languages  fluently,"  replied  Ed- 
mund, "it  makes  no  difference  which  you  use." 

Here  Laura  made  a  full  pause  by  the  wayside,  to  arrange 
her  dress  and  smooth  her  hair  before  presenting  herself  to 
the  fashionable  Madame  Le  Grande.  Bessy  very  good  na- 
turedly  assisted  her  in  her  toilet,  though  she  seemed  exces- 
sively amused  at  her  superfluous  anxiety  about  her  personal 
appearance.  Sometimes  she  would  shake  back  her  own 
golden  ringlets,  from  her  smiling  eyes  and  glowing  cheeks, 
and  burst  into  a  merry  peal  of  laughter,  in  which  Estelle 
joined  ;  but  Edmund  looked  grave,  and  told  them  Mademoi- 
selle Victorine  never  laughed  loud. 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCKAP-BAG.  179 

"  There  is  Madame  Le  Grande's,"  exclaimed  he,  as  a  low, 
faded  white  cottage  appeared,  situated  far  back  from  the  road- 
side, with  a  dark  railing  in  front,  which  ran  along,  unbroken 
by  a  gate. 

"  That  Madame  Le  Grande's,"  cried  Laura,  with  a  look 
of  astonishment ;  "  I  thought  you  said  she  lived  in  great  style." 

"  But  you  have  not  seen  the  inside.  You  know  the 
French  don't  pay  so  much  attention  to  the  outside  of  the 
houses  as  the  English." 

The  children  were  obliged  to  jump  over  the  railing  foi 
want  of  a  gate,  and  were  soon  at  the  door  of  the  cottage. 

"  I  never  should  dream  of  such  a  great  lady  as  Madame 
Le  Grande's  living  in  such  a  little,  old  place  as  this,"  said 
Laura. 

"  But  it  is  beautiful  in  summer,"  cried  Bessy  ;  "  only  look, 
Laura,  what  a  charming  prospect  there  is,  even  now." 

The  children  looked  back  upon  a  landscape,  on  which 
some  faint  traces  of  vernal  beauty  were  beginning  to  steal 
over  the  bleakness  of  departing  winter.  The  river,  graceful 
in  its  continuous  undulations,  rolled  sparkling  and  shining 
through  the  meadows  and  fields,  reflecting  the  blue  of  the 
sky ;  and,  melting  into  that  beauteous  blue,  was  seen  the  soft 
outline  of  distant  mountains,  girdling  the  valley  with  an 
azure  zone. 

"Is  it  not  lovely  ?"  repeated  Bessy,  with  growing  enthu- 
siasm. "  But  if  you  saw  it  in  summer,  when  the  trees  are 
all  covered  with  green  leaves,  and  the  fields  are  all  green, 
and  the  flowers  spring  up  here  and  there,  and  everywhere, 
and  the  fruit  hangs  on  the  boughs,  you  would  say  you  never 
saw  any  thing  so  beautiful  in  all  your  life." 

Here  the  door  opened,  and  the  tide  of  Bessy's  eloquence 
was  arrested  by  the  ample  person  of  Madame  Le  Grande 
herself.  Laura,  who  had  prepared  to  make  her  handsomest 
dancing-school  courtesy,  stood  rigid  with  astonishment  at 
the  extraordinary  figure  which  met  her  gaze.  Madame  Le 
Grande  was  dressed  in  the  fashion  of  the  last  century,  but 
the  original  colour  of  her  robe  it  was  impossible  to  deter- 
mine, as  it  seemed  to  have  been  worn  for  years,  without 
passing  through  the  customary  ablutions.  She  wore  a  tur- 
ban of  dirty  yellow,  which  looked  coeval  with  her  dress, 
and  her  dingy  brown  hair  defied,  in  its  tangles,  the  aid  of 
brush  or  comb.  Her  complexion  might  have  lx  en  fair,  but 


180  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

it  was  brown  with  the  accumulated  soil  and  dust  of  time. 
Indeed,  she  was  well  worthy  of  the  name  by  which  she  was 
universally  known — the  queen  of  slovens.  Yet,  beneath 
this  disgusting  exterior,  she  carried  the  native  graces  of  a 
Frenchwoman,  and  invited  her  young  guests  to  enter,  with 
smiles  and  bows,  that  would  have  graced  a  city  drawing- 
room.  Frank  took  offhis  hat,  and  bowed  down  to  the  ground  ; 
but  Laura,  casting  an  indignant  glance  at  Edmund,  made  no 
acknowledgment  of  the  lady's  politeness.  She  pressed  her 
frock  close  to  her,  as  she  passed  through  the  door,  which 
she  entered,  after  the  others,  led  on  by  an  impulse  of  irre- 
pressible curiosity.  The  parlour,  or  sitting-room,  or  bou- 
doir, or  whatever  name  it  bore,  was  indeed  furnished  in  a 
most  original  manner,  and  occupied  by  original  guests.  A 
young  girl  about  Bessy's  age  was  seated  by  the  fire,  em- 
broidering a  dingy  green  shawl,  with  parti -colon  red  crewel. 
A  young  pig  was  crouched  at  her  feet,  in  a  loving  position. 
and  on  a  large  table  on  her  left  was  reposing  eight  or  nine 
young  cats  and  kittens,  which  looked  as  if  they  lived  in  the 
chimney,  so  begrimmed  with  soot  and  smoke  were  their 
once  white  and  silky  coats.  Some  very  familiar  and  do- 
mestic looking  hens  were  walking  about  the  room,  occasion- 
ally picking  corn  from  the  floor,  evidently  scattered  there 
for  their  accommodation.  A  gentleman,  dressed  in  a  suit 
of  faded  black,  sat  on  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace,  so 
intent  upon  a  book,  in  which  he  was  reading,  that  he 
did  not  at  first  notice  the  entrance  of  the  juvenile  vi- 
sitors. But  when  he  raised  his  head,  he  discovered  a 
countenance  so  benign  and  intelligent,  a  forehead  so  high 
and  commanding,  an  eye  so  bright  and  winning,  that 
in  spite  of  his  strange  accompaniments,  he  won,  instan- 
taneously, the  respect  which  is  a  gentleman's  due.  The 
young  girl,  who  was  Mademoiselle  Victorine,  laid  her  em- 
broidery frame  by  the  side  of  the  cats,  and  asked  the  young 
ladies  to  be  seated.  Her  appearance  was  as  singular  as 
her  mother,  but  there  was  not  the  slightest  personal  resem- 
blance. Her  eyes  were  of  a  deep,  brilliant  black,  and  her  long 
hair,  of  the  same  hue,  hung  in  matted  tresses  down  her  back. 
The  ground-work  of  her  frock  had  once  been  white,  but  it 
had  lost  all  its  original  uurity,  and  large  bunches  of  flowers 
were  dimly  seen  delineated  on  the  dusky  expanse.  It  was 
remarkable  to  see  the  ease  and  grace  with  which  this  strange 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP- BAG.  181 

and  grotesque-looking  girl  accosted  her  guests,  and  acted 
the  part  of  a  hostess. 

Edmund  and  Bessy,  who  were  familiarized  to  the  myste- 
ries of  this  singular  household,  enjoyed  the  silent  wonder  of 
Frank  and  Laura,  who  looked  as  bewildered  as  if  they  were 
plunged  in  the  midst  of  a  menagerie.  By  the  side  of  the 
table  of  cats  was  an  old-fashioned  harpsichord,  and  over  it 
were  several  rows  of  bookshelves,  filled  \vith  classic  works. 
That  Monsieur  Le  Grande  was  a  scholar,  was  evident  from 
the  authors  which  he  had  selected;  that  Mademoiselle  Vic- 
torine  was  an  accomplished  child,  seemed  as  evident  from 
the  embroidery  frame  and  harpsichord,  and  Madame  Le 
Grande  had  the  manners  of  a  lady  of  the  first  rank.  And 
yet  they  lived  among  animals,  in  the  midst  of  congenial  ele- 
ments, regardless  of  the  comforts  and  decencies  of  life,  ap- 
parently as  contented  and  happy  as  the  inmates  of  a  palace. 

"  We  have  a  great  many  pets,"  said  Madame  Le  Grande, 
looking  smilingly  round  on  her  dumb  favourites,  "  but  I 
could  not  spare  one  of  the  dear  creatures  !" 

"  I  would  not  give  Fidele  for  all  of  them,"  cried  Victo- 
rine,  caressing  a  little  shaggy  dog,  that  just  emerged  from  a 
heap  of  rubbish,  and  leaped  barking  into  her  lap. 

"  Let  us  go,"  whispered  Laura  to  Bessy,  "  it  makes  me 
sick  to  see  so  much  dirt." 

When  the  children  rose  to  depart,  Madame  Le  Grande 
loaded  their  handkerchiefs  with  apples  and  nuts,  which 
they  said  they  would  carry  home  and  divide  with  Emma. 

When  they  left  the  house,  Laura  reproached  Edmund 
and  Bessy  for  deceiving  her  so,  declaring  that  she  would 
rather  starve  than  eat  any  thing  that  came  out  of  such  a 
den  of  wild  beasts.  Frank  was  in  boisterous  spirits ;  and 
pretended  to  be  in  raptures  with  Victorine,  asserting  that 
she  was  the  most  beautiful  creature  he  had  ever  seen. 

"She  would  be  beautiful,"  said  Bessy,  "if  she  were 
dressed  nice,  and  kept  her  hair  smooth,  and  her  face  fair ; 
she  makes  me  think  of  the  stories  I  have  read  about  gip- 
sies, with  her  shining  black  eyes  and  coal  black  hair." 

"  But  what  makes  them  live  in  such  a  dirty  old  place, 
among  the  pigs,  and  cats,  and  dogs  ?"  asked  Laura.  "I 
don't  think  Christian  people  ought  to  visit  them." 

"  You  must  get  Aunt  Patty  to  tell  you  all  she  knows 
about  them,"  replied  Edmund.  "  She  has  a  scrap  of  Vic- 


182  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

torine's  flowered  frock ;  and  if  you  can  only  draw  that  OIK 
of  her  bag,  the  family  history  will  come  with  it.  I  have 
heard  my  father  say  that  Monsieur  Le  Grande  was  one  of 
the  most  intelligent,  well-informed  gentlemen  he  ever  met 
with ;  and  that  he  would  be  an  ornament  to  any  society. 
They  are  very  wealthy,  and  extremely  kind  to  the  poor." 

"  One  of  these  days,"  said  Frank,  "  when  I  get  to  be  a 
man,  I  mean  to  come  back  and  see  Mademoiselle  Victorine : 
I  will  learn  her  how  to  wash  her  face  and  comb  her  hair, 
and  make  a  fine  lady  of  her." 

The  idea  of  Victorine's  taking  toilet  lessons  of  Frank, 
amused  the  children  excessively ;  and  as  the  springs  of 
mirth,  when  once  touched,  are  apt  to  vibrate  long  in  the 
breast  of  childhood,  they  continued  to  laugh  till  they  reached 
the  threshold  of  home. 

In  the  evening,  when  the  children  were  discoursing  the 
events  of  the  day,  Laura  reminded  Edmund  of  his  promise, 
to  tell  them  something  more  about  the  strange,  dirty  family 
they  had  visited  in  the  morning. 

"  Oh !  Aunt  Patty  must  tell  you,"  replied  Edmund ; 
"  she  is  the  historian  of  the  town.  But  she  must  produce 
her  scrap-bag  first,  for  she  keeps  her  memory  tied  up  with 
her  pieces." 

This  was  a  request  which  Aunt  Patty  never  refused ; 
and  she  was  soon  seated  in  the  midst  of  a  circle  of  smiling 
faces.  Estelle  sat  on  a  little  stool  at  her  feet,  holding  her 
snuff-box  in  her  left  hand,  with  the  right  extended,  ready 
to  plunge  in  the  opening  reservoir.  Emma  sat  quietly 
near;  the  tears  of  the  morning,  exhaled  in  the  sunshine  of 
Homer's  kindness,  had  left  a  soft  glow  on  her  cheek, 
delicate  as  the  hue  of  the  rose  when  the  dew  has  just  dried 
on  its  petals.  Bessy  leaned  over  her  lap  so  close  that  the 
rich  foliage  of  her  waving  hair  shaded  the  fair  tints  of  her 
sister's  face,  while  it  seemed  to  glorify  her  own.  Nothing 
could  be  more  charming  than  the  young  group  that  sur- 
rounded Aunt  Patty — the  sibyl  of  the  evening.  Laura, 
with  her  smooth,  brown  locks  braided  down  her  back,  and 
tied  at  the  ends  with  blue  ribbon,  formed  a  pleasing  con- 
trast to  the  two  lovely  sisters.  And  then  Frank's  round, 
laughing  face,  peeping  over  Edmund's  shoulder,  as  if  ready 
to  penetrate  the  mysteries  of  the  bag  ;  and  Edmund's  brow, 
so  fair  and  noble,  and  wearing  that  princely  expression 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  183 

peculiar  to  himself ! — It  was  a  family  picture  exhibited  in 
the  light  a  painter  best  loves.  And  how  proud  Aunt  Patty 
looked,  to  be  the  cynosure  of  those  starry  eyes — the  living 
focus  of  'those  rays  of  youth  and  beauty.  She  undrew 
the  string  of  her  scrap-bag,  smiled,  and  nodded,  patted 
Estelle  on  the  head,  then  taking  a  large  pinch  of  snuff,  Ed- 
mund declared  she  sneezed  out  of  the  bag  the  identical 
sample  of  Victorine's  frock,  which  was  destined  to  be  the 
subject  of  their  evening's  entertainment.  Sure  enough,  it 
lay  on  the  top  of  the  pieces,  conspicuous  for  its  enormous 
flowers  and  gaudy  colours. 

"  Tell  us  all  about  Victorine,  Aunt  Patty,"  said  Frank. 
"  Did  she  spring  up  there,  among  her  cats  and  pigs,  or  has 
she  lately  come  over  from  the  great  city  of  Paris  ?" 

"You  must  let  me  begin  in  the  right  place,"  replied 
Aunt  Patty,  smoothing  out  the  flowers  on  her  knee,  "  or  I 
never  shall  tell  any  thing  straight.  The  first  time  I  ever 
saw  Victorine,  it  was  about  two  years  ago,  and  she  had  on 
this  very  frock " 

"  And  she's  worn  it  ever  since,  I  dare  say,"  said  Frank. 

"Hush!  Frank,"  said  Laura;  "you  always  interrupt 
one  so." 

"  Well,"  continued  Aunt  Patty,  "  very  likely  she  has, 
for  the  poor  thing  don't  know  any  better.  Her  mother 
brings  her  up  among  the  animals,  and,  as  they  don't  change 
their  coats,  I  suppose  she  thinks  there  is  no  occasion  for 
her  to  change  hers.  One  Sunday  afternoon,  just  as  the 
services  closed,  there  came  up  a  terrible  storm  of  rain,  and 
it  thundered  and  lightened  too.  The  carriage  went  home 
first  with  my  niece  Emma,  Mrs.  Worth  that  now  is,  and 
little  Emma  and  Bessy.  Edmund  waited  with  me,  for  I 
was  afraid  to  ride  when  it  thundered,  and  we  sat  down  in 
one  of  the  pews  till  the  carriage  should  return.  Edmund 
got  tired  sitting  still,  and  went  up  in  the  gallery,  and  walked 
about  there  at  his  leisure.  Who  should  he  see  there,  all 
by  herself,  but  a  little  girl  in  a  flowered  frock  and  green 
bonnet,  crying  bitterly.  He  came  down  and  told  me  what 
he  had  seen,  and  I  sent  him  back  to  bring  her  to  me,  for  it 
is  hard  work  for  me  to  hobble  up  stairs  with  my  crutch. 
The  poor  thing  came  crying  and  hanging  down  her  head, 
saying,  she  didn't  know  how  to  get  home,  and  she  thought 
she  was  all  alone  in  the  big  church.  I  asked  her  where 


184  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP- BAG. 

she  lived,  and  told  her  I  would  take  her  home  when  the 
carriage  came,  but  that  she  needn't  be  afraid  in  the  church, 
*br  it  was  no  other  than  the  house  of  God  and  the  gate  of 
heaven.  It  rained  very  hard  when  we  left  the  church,  and 
we  had  to  go  a  roundabout  way  to  carry  the  child  home. 
The  horses  got  restive,  going  backward  and  forward  in  the 
storm,  and  when  we  stopped  to  set  her  down,  they  wouldn'; 
stand  still,  but  arched  their  necks  and  frisked  about  in  » 
frightful  manner.  The  little  girl  jumped  out  like  a  squirrel, 
and  Edmund  leaped  after  her  and  tried  to  get  at  the  horses' 
heads.  But,  quicker  than  lightning,  they  sprang  up  in  the 
air,  and  overturned  the  carriage  in  a  moment." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Patty !  didn't  they  kill  you  ?"  cried  Estelle. 

"  Not  quite,  my  darling.  I  knew  nothing  in  the  world 
till  I  found  myself  between  a  pair  of  sheets  that  Adam  and 
Eve  might  have  slept  in,  for  aught  I  know :  all  the  waters 
of  the  deluge  wouldn't  have  made  them  clean.  The  wild, 
heathenish  looking  child  was  standing  on  one  side  of  me, 
and  a  big  woman  in  a  yellow  turban  on  the  other.  I  tried  to 
move,  but  I  was  so  bruised  and  hurt  I  coul^u  t  lift  my  hand 
to  my  head  ;  and  there  I  had  to  stay  three  days  and  nights." 

"  In  those  dreadful  sheets  ?"  asked  Bessy. 

"No,  child;  the  first  night  I  was  there  a  blood-vessel 
broke,  in  consequence  of  my  fall,  and  every  thing  round  me 
was  stained  with  the  blood  that  flowed  from  my  mouth. 
Your  mother,  who  came  to  me,  as  soon  as  she  heard  of  the 
accident,  sent  for  clean  linen  and  napkins,  saying,  she  could 
not  think  of  giving  so  much  trouble  to  my  kind  hostess. 
And  kind,  indeed,  she  was ;  and  so  was  little  Victorine. 
They  watched  by  me  as  if  I  were  the  dearest  friend  they 
had  in  the  world ;  and  I  believe  it  is  owing  to  the  skilful 
nursing  of  Madame  Le  Grande  that  I  am  yet  in  the  land 
of  the  living." 

"  I  do  believe,"  interrupted  Laura,  "  that  I  would  rather 
die  than  have  that  ugly,  dirty  woman,  do  any  thing  for  me." 

"  She  is  not  half  as  dirty  as  the  damp  grave  and  the 
earth-worm,"  replied  Aunt  Patty  with  solemnity.  "I'll 
tell  thee  what,  child,  if  you  were  lying  in  agony,  thinking, 
perhaps,  every  hour  might  bring  you  into  the  presence  of 
the  Holy  One  of  Israel,  and  all  your  sins  passing  before 
your  eyes,  dark  and  thick,  you  wouldn't  be  squeamish  about 
the  hands  that  smoothed  your  pillow,  and  held  your  aching 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  185 

head.    You  would  be  thankful  to  be  nursed  by  any  one  in 
the  world,  or  your  heart  is  harder  than  I  think  it  is." 

"  I  would  like  to  know,"  said  Frank,  "  what  made  Mon- 
sieur Le  Grande,  who  is  really  a  fine-looking  gentleman, 
marry  such  a  witch  of  Endor,  as  she  is." 

"  I  can  tell  you,"  said  Aunt  Patty,  "  for  I  heard  him  tell 
Mr.  Worth  all  about  it,  one  night,  when  I  was  there,  and 
they  thought  I  was  asleep.  They  had  been  talking  about 
books,  and  every  thing  one  can  think  of,  when  Mr.  Worth 
told  him,  that  he  wondered  to  see  a  man  of  his  talents 
and  education,  willing  to  live  so  retired,  and  that  he  would 
assist  him  in  choosing  a  situation  more  suited  to  his  charac- 
ter. He  said,  all  he  wanted  was  leisure  and  retirement,  and 
leave  to  do  just  as  he  pleased.  "  Madame  Le  Grande," 
said  he,  "  has  peculiar  tastes,  and  so  have  I.  We  promised, 
when  we  married,  not  to  interfere  with  each  other,  and  not 
to  let  the  world  interrupt  us.  I  was  a  poor  young  student,, 
and  she  a  rich  widow,  who,  taking  a  fancy  to  me,  poor  as  I 
was,  asked  me  to  marry  her,  and  you  know  I  could  not  refuse." 

"  Oh  !  how  bold,"  exclaimed  Bessy  ;  "  I  shouldn't  think  a 
woman  could  be  so  bold." 

"Nor  I  either,"  replied  Aunt  Patty  with  energy;  "I 
wouldn't  ask  a  man  to  have  me  if  he  was  made  of  diamonds, 
and  cased  in  gold.  It  is  a  sin  and  a  shame,  and  a  disgrace 
to  the  whole  sex.  If  the  truth  were  told,  it  is  the  way  half 
the  women  get  married,  I  do  believe." 

"  So  do  I,"  said  Frank,  "  and  one  of  these  days  Victorine 
will  ask  me,  and  I  will  make  a  low  bow,  and  say,  Yes — I 
thank  you,  Mademoiselle,  with  all  my  heart." 

The  children  all  laughed  at  Frank,  and  at  the  impression 
the  little  French  gipsy  had  made  on  his  imagination.  The 
rest  of  Aunt  Patty's  history  was  too  discursive,  and  inter- 
rupted too  often,  to  be  able  to  follow  it  in  a  connected  man- 
ner. Indeed,  her  youthful  auditors  manifested  some  symp- 
toms of  uneasiness  before  its  close,  and  Estelle,  falling  fast 
asleep,  suffered  Aunt  Patty's  snuff-box  to  drop  on  the  car- 
pet, close  by  her  kitten's  nose,  who  ran  round  the  room 
sneezing  at  every  step. 

In  a  few  days,  Mrs.  Wharton  and  her  children  bade 
adieu  to  their  friends,  and  departed  for  their  city  home. 
Laura  and  Bessy  exchanged  warm  professions  of  friend- 
ship and  promises  of  a  regular  correspondence.  Frank 


186  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

shocked  Emma's  refined  sense  of  propriety,  by  giving 
Bessy  and  herself  a  loud  kiss  on  the  cheek,  where  modest 
roses  flushed  crimson  at  the  unwonted  freedom. 

"  Thank  Heaven,"  exclaimed  Homer,  as  the  carriage  rolled 
from  the  door. 

"And  thank  Heaven,"  repeated  the  soft  voice  of  Mrs. 
Worth,  for  at  the  same  moment  a  letter  arrived  from  her 
husband. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IT  was  autumn — mild,  rich,  golden  autumn.  The  corn, 
emerging  from  its  folding  husks,  stood  ripening  in  the  mel 
low  sunshine ;  the  vermilion  apples  glowed  through  tht 
changing  leaves  ;  and  the  grapes  hung  in  luxuriant  clusters, 
through  the  slender  lattice-work  that  supported  the  vines. 
And  then,  the  harvest-moon  !  how  full,  how  glorious  was  its 
light !  as  its  silver  wheel  seemed  to  poise  itself  on  high,  to 
lengthen  the  day  for  the  anxious  husbandman.  The  Worth 
family  contemplated  that  moon  with  throbbing  hearts,  for 
they  knew  it  illumined  the  return  of  the  beloved  traveller. 
He  had  not  been  successful  in  securing  the  fortune,  to  which 
he  had  a  just  claim,  and  his  last  letter  was  written  in  a  tone 
of  unwonted  sadness.  Mrs.  Worth  felt  some  lawful  and 
natural  regrets  at  the  downfal  of  their  hopes,  but  they  were 
soon  merged  in  the  thought  of  her  husband's  return.  They 
had  been  so  happy  together  before,  why  should  they  sigh 
for  more  abundant  wealth  ?  The  children  were  too  young 
to  feel  the  full  weight  of  disappointment.  They  cared  for 
nothing  but  seeing  their  father  once  more,  doubly  endeared 
by  long  absence.  Day  after  day  they  gathered  under  the 
meeting  elms,  which  began  to  shed  here  and  there  a  golden 
leaf,  to  watch  for  the  approach  of  the  stately  figure,  whose 
departure  they  had  there  lingered  to  behold.  Mrs.  Worch 
sat  at  the  window  that  looked  down  the  street,  and  every 
horseman,  whose  dark  outline  was  defined  in  the  horizon, 
made  her  heart  throb  quick,  and  her  colour  to  come  and  "  go 
with  beatings"  from  that  throbbing  heart.  She  wondered 
at  his  delay.  The  exact  day  had  never  been  appointed,  for 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP- BAG.  187 

He  had  endeavoured  to  guard  against  disappointment,  by 
speaking  in  indefinite  terms.  Still  affection  fixed  on  the 
earliest  possible  day,  and  apprehensions,  always  inseparable 
from  such  intense  affection,  sometimes  flitted  darkly  before 
her  imagination. 

"  I  know  father  will  be  here  to-day,"  exclaimed  Bessy, 
"for  I  had  such  a  beautiful  dream  last  night.  I  dreamed 
that  he  came  back,  looking  younger  and  handsomer  than 
ever,  and  he  had  glorious  wings  on  his  shoulders ;  and  he 
told  us  he  was  going  to  take  us  all  to  the  loveliest  country  in 
the  universe.  Yet  I  felt  sorry  to  hear  him  say  so,  for  1 
knew  I  could  never  love  any  place  so  dearly  as  this,  my  own. 
beautiful  home." 

"  I  don't  think  that  was  a  good  dream,"  said  Aunt 
Patty,  shaking  her  head  solemnly,  "  I  never  dreamed  of 
seeing  anybody  look  like  an  angel  but  once,  and  that  was 
Parson  Broomfield,  the  night  before  he  died.  It  is  a  bad 
sign.  You  shouldn't  have  looked  after  your  father  the  morn- 
ing he  went  away,  children — I  told  you  not  to  do  it — that 
was  another  bad  sign." 

"  Hush  !  Aunt  Patty,"  said  Edmund,  observing  Bessy's 
eyes  fill  with  tears,  and  his  mother  turn  very  pale,  notwith- 
standing she  had  no  faith  in  dreams.  "  I  will  not  allow  of 
any  bad  signs  about  father's  return.  See,  all  nature  is  in 
smiles  to  welcome  him  back,  and  our  hearts  and  faces  ought 
all  to  be  dressed  in  sunshine.  Mark  me,  dear  mother,  for  a 
true  prophet.  He  will  be  here  to-night  before  the  harvest- 
moon  goes  down." 

Mrs.  Worth  smiled,  as  she  looked  upon  her  son,  the 
blooming  personification  of  hope  and  joy.  She  looked  at  all 
her  children,  and  thought  they  had  all  grown  handsomer  and 
taller  during  their  father's  absence.  She  remembered  their 
filial  devotion,  and  thought  how  it  would  gladden  his  heart 
to  hear  its  recital.  And  Homer,  too !  gloomy  and  misan- 
thropic still,  but  ever  affectionate  to  her,  and  ofttimes  kind 
to  Emma.  She  could  present  her  dark-browed  boy  to  his 
father,  and  tell  him,  that  his  parting  words  had  not  been 
uttered  in  vain.  That  though  the  evil  spirit  had  not  de- 
parted, like  that  which  possessed  the  bosom  of  Saul,  it  could 
be  charmed  with  the  music  of  love.  Her  eye  wandered 
into  the  garden,  and  rested  on  the  fragrant  grapes,  which 
were  not  allowed  to  be  culled,  till  father's  hand  had  gathered 


188  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

the  fairest  and  best ;  on  thp  autumnal  flowers,  whose 
ing  purple,  crimson,  and  yellow,  emulated  th«  rainbow 
dyes,  and  which  were  also  reserved  for  the  piternal  eye  • 
then  turned  towards  the  heavens,  so  soft  and  cloudless,  i« 
the  day's  declining  glory,  and  she  felt  as  if  every  thir»L* 
breathed  of  welcome,  hope,  and  joy.  She  closed  her  eye? 
in  a  kind  of  blissful  re  very,  and  the  sweet  remembrances  c* 
youthful  love  came  vividly  back  upon  her  soul.  Softly  sru-- 
glided  backward  on  the  stream  of  time,  and  smiling  image? 
rose  upon  its  banks,  passed  long  ago,  now  brought  neare*1 
and  nearer,  brighter  and  still  more  bright.  The  scenes  o* 
her  blooming  girlhood,  her  sunny  bridal  hours,  melted  aw?) 
into  the  mother's  joys  and  cares,  the  wife's  time-hallowed 
tenderness.  A  flood  of  gratitude  and  sensibility  flowed  over 
her  heart.  She  was  lost  to  surrounding  objects,  and  starter* 
as  from  the  musings  of  a  dream,  when  Homer  touched  her 
on  the  shoulder,  holding  a  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  A  letter  !"  exclaimed  she,  the  chill  of  disappointmen* 
freezing  her  warm  hopes.  She  took  it  hastily,  without  no- 
ticing the  unusually  gloomy  brow  of  her  first-born.  It  wa* 
a  stranger's  hand ;  but  the  postmark  bore  the  name  of  be  - 
husband's  southern  residence.  It  was  sealed  with  black. 
Had  a  coffin  been  suddenly  placed  in  the  centre  of  that 
family  group,  it  could  not  have  caused  a  more  shuddering 
sensation  than  that  strange,  black-sealed  letter.  "  My 
God !"  said  Mrs.  Worth,  dropping  it  from  her  nerveless 
fingers,  and  her  head  leaned  heavily  on  Homer's  shoulder. 
Edmund  sprang  to  her  side,  but  Homer,  feeling  a  stern  joy 
in  being  his  mother's  first  supporter  in  the  mysterious  trial 
that  might  await  her,  frowned  upon  his  brother,  and  locked 
his  arms  closely  round  her.  "  Oh  !  mother !"  exclaimed 
Bessy,  wringing  her  hands,  "  what  is  the  matter  ?  How 
white  she  looks  !  How  blue  her  lips  !  Emma,  Emma,  she 
is  dying  !"  Estelle  clung,  weeping  bitterly,  to  Aunt  Patty  ; 
and  Emma,  pale  and  trembling,  but  self-possessed  and 
thoughtful,  ran  into  the  house  and  brought  hartshorn  and 
cologne,  and  bathed  her  mother's  death-like  face,  and  cold 
hands.  Edmund  had  taken  the  letter  from  the  ground,  and 
stood  gazing  at  the  black  seal,  till  it  seemed  as  if  a  black 
pall  covered  the  whole  scene.  It  was  the  first  object  which 
met  Mrs.  Worth's  opening  eyes.  "  Death,  death  !"  she 
groaned — "  There  is  death  in  that  letter — I  cannot  open  it." 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG,  189 

"Perhaps,  dear  mother,"  cried  Edmund  with  quivering 
lips,  "  it  is  an  accident.  This  may  have  been  written  since 
father's  departure,  and  the  writer  himself  be  in  mourning." 

"  Open  it,"  said  she,  faintly,  "  I  cannot  do  it." 

Edmund  broke  the  seal,  while  tKe  paper  shook  and  rus- 
tled in  his  trembling1  fingers.  He  had  scarcely  read  three 
lines,  when,  with  a  loud,  heart-rending  cry,  he  tossed  the 
letter  wildly  from  him,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  mother's 
lap.  That  bitter  cry  was  echoed  again  and  again  beneath 
the  now  desolate  roof — the  cry  of  orphanage  and  wo.  Only 
one  pale  lip  was  silent,  one  breaking  heart  was  still. 

Speechless  and  tearless  Mrs.  Worth  was  borne  to  hei 
room,  in  the  arms  of  her  weeping  children.  Speechless  and 
tearless  she  lay,  during  the  live-long  night,  with  the  bright 
harvest  moon  shining  down  into  her  chamber,  as  if  in  mock 
ery  of  her  unutterable  grief.  Kind  neighbours  came  there 
for  that  wailing  cry  had  been  heard,  and  the  whole  village  was 
soon  covered  with  mourning.  The  common  benefactor  and 
friend  was  no  more — the  friend  of  the  widow  and  the  orphan 
— and  they  came  to  weep  with  the  new-made  widow  and 
fatherless.  He  had  died  of  one  of  the  burning  fevers  of  a 
southern  clime,  and  his  ashes  reposed  in  a  foreign  soil. 

Wretched,  desolate  family  !  plunged  at  once  from  such  a 
height  of  hope  to  such  an  abyss  of  sorrow.  How  long  was 
that  first  night  of  agony!  How  intolerable  its  silvery  bright- 
ness. Edmund  and  Emma  knelt  on  each  side  of  their  mo- 
ther's couch,  with  their  faces  buried  in  the  counterpane, 
which  became  literally  saturated  with  their  tears.  Once 
in  a  while,  they  lifted  their  dimmed  eyes  to  their  mother's 
face,  but  it  looked  so  white  and  ghastly  in  the  still  moon- 
shine, they  shuddered,  and  again  veiled  their  brows.  Bessy 
.ay  by  her  mother's  side,  her  bright  locks  all  dishevelled 
and  drooping  like  the  boughs  of  a  weeping-willow.  So  ter- 
rific was  the  shock  to  one  of  her  ardent  temperament,  that 
reason  was  for  awhile  unthroned.  She  seemed  to  hold  in- 
tercourse with  invisible  beings,  and  smiled,  and  made  beclc 
oning  motions  with  her  fingers,  and  sometimes  laughed 
aloud — a  horrible  sound  in  that  chamber  of  mourning.  Ho- 
mer stood  in  the  window,  with  dry  and  bloodshot  eyes, 
which  were  fixed  gloomily,  and  even  fiercely,  on  the  clear 
night-heaven,  as  if  in  defiance  of  the  power  that  had  crushed 
all  other  spirits  low.  He  remembered  the  hour  when  his 


190  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

soul  had  dissolved  in  a  father's  parting  emhrace — when  hi* 
deep,  solemn  accents  murmured  in  his  ear,  and  he  had  com- 
mitted to  his  charge  so  dear,  so  holy  a  trust.  And  now 
that  revered  form  was  cold  and  lifeless,  that  deep-toned 
voice  was  still,  their  home  was  indeed  that  of  the  widow 
and  fatherless,  and  he  must  now  be  "  their  pillar  and  their 
shield."  Though  Homer  sincerely  mourned  his  father, 
whom  he  honoured  above  all  human  beings,  a  feeling  of 
independence,  of  premature  manhood,  of  superiority  over 
Edmund,  as  the  elder-born,  the  right  of  primogeniture  in- 
vesting him  with  something  of  paternal  dignity,  mingled 
strangely  with  his  grief.  "  Oh,  that  I  were  a  man  !"  cried 
he  to  himself,  clenching  his  hands  tightly  over  his  forehead. 
"  I  will  be  one — I  never  will  own  another  guardian.  I  my- 
self will  be  the  guardian  of  the  household.  My  father 
thought  me  worthy  of  the  trust.'' 

Aunt  Patty,  though  the  kindest  of  human  beings,  knew 
nothing  of  those  delicate  shades  of  feeling,  which  constitute 
the  perfection  of  a  refined  character.  She  knew  of  no  sym- 
pathy but  what  is  expressed  in  words.  She  unconsciously 
planted  daggers  in  the  hearts  of  the  children,  by  asking  the 
particulars  of  their  father's  death,  unable  herself  to  deci- 
pher a  stranger's  writing.  She  tried  to  console  her  niece, 
but  finding  her  efforts  vain,  she  sat  down,  with  Estelle  in 
her  arms,  who  had  sobbed  herself  to  sleep,  and  was  soon  nod- 
ding wearily  over  her. 

Weeks  passed  by,  and,  though  wailing  and  lamentation 
had  ceased,  the  sadness  of  the  grave  brooded  over  the  house- 
hold. The  merry  laugh,  the  bounding  step  were  heard  no 
more.  The  grapes  hung  withering  on  the  vines ;  the  ap- 
ples fell  unheeded  to  the  ground  ;  the  flowers  faded  away, 
ungathered  and  forgotten ;  the  yellow  leaves  of  autumn  fell 
faster  and  faster  on  the  green  grass  that  carpeted  the  yard, 
but  no  hand  swept  them  away.  Mrs.  Worth  moved  about 
once  more  in  the  midst  of  her  domestic  duties, 

"  But  oh  !  with  such  a  freezing  eye, 

With  such  a  curdling  cheek — 
Love — love  of  mortal  agony — 
Thou,  only  thou  canst  speak." 

She  had  not  yet  shed  one  tear.  The  fountains  of  sorrow 
seemed  frozen  in  her  bosom.  It  was  not  till  the  traveller's 
trunks  arrived,  which  he  had  packed  with  his  own  hands 


AUNT  PATTYS  SCRAP-BAG. 

preparatory  to  his  homeward  journey,  that  the  dry  agon-"-  rf 
grief  found  relief  in  tears.  There  were  all  the  little  memo- 
rials of  love,  which  the  absent  one  had  collected  for  those 
who  waited  his  return.  Packets  carefully  folded,  and  bear- 
ing the  loved  names  on  the  envelope.  There  was  the  bag 
of  calico  pieces,  and  Estelle's  little  kitten  deposited  in  a 
corner  of  the  trunk,  and  beneath  the  kitten  a  beautiful  snufly 
box.  At  sight  of  this  proof  of  remembrance  and  kindness, 
even  Aunt  Patty  wept  aloud.  Mrs.  Worth  turned  froiii  the 
gifts  which  had  been  selected  with  a  refined  regard  to  her 
peculiar  tastes  and  character,  to  clasp  to  her  bosom  the  gar- 
ments he  had  worn,  to  cover  them  with  her  kisses  and  her 
tears.  The  sorrow  so  long  imprisoned  in  her  aching  heart, 
now  found  impassioned  utterance.  She  gathered  her  chil- 
dren alternately  in  her  arms,  and  embraced  them  again  and 
again,  as  if  she  feared  they  were  to  be  torn  from  her  by 
violence. 

"  Oh,  my  beloved  ones  !"  cried  she,  "  ye  are  orphans — 
sad,  desolate  orphans.  He,  who  was  my  guide  and  my 
strength,  as  well  as  yours,  is  taken  from  us,  to  return  no 
more  for  ever.  Our  once  happy  home  is  as  a  grave  to  us — 
the  world  nothing  but  a  wilderness.  Oh  !  that  his  grave 
were  mine.  He  is  gone  ;  and  with  him  life,  joy,  and  hope." 

"  We  are  left,  mother,"  said  Edmund,  in  half-reproach- 
ful accents,  "  we  are  left  to  love,  cherish,  and  protect  you." 

"  Protect !"  repeated  Homer,  looking  darkly  at  Edmund  ; 
"  to  protect  my  mother  is  my  right,  and  I  will  yield  it  to  no 
one." 

"  God  is  left,  dear  mother,"  said  Emma,  softly,  lifting  up- 
wards her  meek,  religious-beaming  eyes,  "  he  will  never 
leave  nor  forsake  thee.  He  will  protect  us  all." 

Homer  turned  aside,  and  dashed  a  tear  from  his  haughty 
eye.  He  felt  the  pious  rebuke  of  his  gentle  sister,  and  the 
accusing  spirit  was  aroused  in  his  bosom. 

"Father  of  mercies  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Worth,  bowing  her 
head  upon  her  hands,  in  the  humility  of  a  chastened  and 
broken  spirit,  "forgive my  impious  murmurs,  and  give  me 
strength  to  live  for  my  children." 

The  widow's  prayer  was  heard.  Let  it  be  supposed  that 
several  years  have  glided  by,  and  see  what  changes  they 
have  marked  in  the  family,  which  we  have  introduced  in 
the  bloom  of  childhood  and  adolescence. 


192  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AFTER  a  lapse  of  three  years,  we  will  present  another  fa- 
mily picture  to  the  eye  of  the  reader,  if  it  has  not  become 
weary  of  gazing  at  the  last.  Mrs.  Worth  is  seated  by  the 
glowing  fireside  of  a  New  England  winter,  whose  warmth 
reflects  a  colour  on  her  now  pallid  cheek.  The  sable  dress, 
the  thoughtful  brow,  the  mild  yet  serious  eye,  proclaim  that 
widowhood  of  the  heart  which  time  cannot  change.  Stand- 
ing by  her  side,  and  leaning  against  the  mantel-piece,  is  a 
tall,  commanding  looking  youth,  with  dark,  gloomy  brow, 
and  eyes  of  intense  lustre.  'Tis  Homer,  by  that  gloomy 
brow,  and  those  peculiar,  beaming  eyes.  With  his  father's 
lofty  stature,  and  unusual  dignity  of  mien,  he  retains  his 
own  striking,  misanthropic  face — a  face  that  exhibits  only  too 
faithfully  the  dark  workings  of  his  soul.  His  brother  stands 
on  the  opposite  side,  less  tall,  less  stately,  but  wearing,  even 
in  a  more  remarkable  degree,  that  air  of  princely  grace 
which  distinguished  his  early  boyhood.  His  hair  and  eyes 
are  darkened ;  and  were  a  painter  to  seek  for  a  personifica- 
tion of  that  age  when  youth  and  manhood  seem  at  strife, 
he  could  not  rest  upon  a  more  engaging  figure  than  that  of 
Edmund  Worth. 

The  brothers  now  meet  at  the  maternal  fireside.  It  is  the 
college  vacation,  and  consequently  a  holiday  at  the  home- 
stead. But  where  is  the  pale,  spiritual- looking  Emma,  and 
the  fair,  sunny-tressed  Bessy  ?  Has  death  again  entered 
the  domestic  circle  and  destroyed  the  sweet  blossoms  of 
childhood,  as  well  as  the  strength  and  hopes  of  man  ?  No, 
Emma,  in  pursuance  of  the  advice  of  their  physician,  has 
accepted  the  invitation  of  a  southern  relative,  and  is  passing 
the  winter  in  a  more  genial  clime ;  and  Bessy  is  at  length 
realizing  some  of  the  dreams  of  her  ardent  imagination  in 
the  gay  home  of  Laura  Wharton.  It  is  the  first  time  she  has 
yielded  to  the  pressing  entreaties  of  her  friends,  who,  instead 
of  releasing  her  during  her  brothers'  vacation,  insist  upon 
their  meeting  her  under  their  own  roof,  to  enjoy  the  festi- 
vities of  the  Christmas  holidays. 

Aunt  Patty  still  occupies  her  usual  corner ;  and  Estelle  is 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  193 

faithful  to  her  first-love,  though  the  outline  of  her  chubby 
face  is  softened,  and  has  assumed  a  more  intellectual  cha- 
racter. Aunt  Patty  is  still  her  oracle — the  recipient  of  all 
her  childish  joys  and  sorrows. 

But  who  is  that  dark-haired  girl,  seated  at  the  table,  ply- 
ing her  needle  with  such  grace  and  dexterity,  yet  ever  and 
anon  lifting  up  from  her  work  eyes  of  such  flashing  bright- 
ness, they  almost  startle  the  beholder  ?  Do  you  remember 
Victorine,  whose  tangled  locks,  and  gipsy-looking  face,  and 
dingy  flowered  robe,  were  the  admiration  of  the  mocking 
Frank  ?  Her  mother,  the  queen  of  slovens,  is  no  more, 
quietly  reposing  in  congenial  dust.  Monsieur  Le  Grand  is 
returned  to  his  native  France,  and  Victorine,  the  orphan  and 
the  heiress,  is  under  the  guardianship  of  Mrs.  Worth,  whom 
she  loves  with  a  devotion  that  defies  the  power  of  language 
to  express.  Something  of  unusual  interest  seems  to  occupy 
the  minds  of  all  present.  Victorine  has  dropped  her  work 
in  her  lap,  and  gazes  on  Edmund  with  an  earnest,  inquiring 
expression,  while  Homer's  eyes  are  fixed  on  her,  as  if  un- 
conscious of  the  object  en  which  they  rest.  Mrs.  Worth 
looks  down  in  deep  revolving  thought ;  and  silence  seems  to 
have  folded  her  wings  by  that  glowing  fireside. 

"  I  will  not  go,  mother,"  at  length  said  Edmund,  "  if  it 
pains  you  too  much  to  give  consent.  Mr.  Selwyn  would 
not  ask  too  great  a  sacrifice  of  you." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  consult  my  own  feelings  at  all,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Worth,  "  but  your  advantage.  The  offer  is  so 
generous,  so  unexpected,  it  involves  so  many  dependencies, 
I  hardly  know  what  to  say — I  tremble  at  the  idea  of  seeing 
a  loved  one  depart  to  a  distant  land."  The  moistened  eye 
and  quivering  lips  spoke  eloquently  of  the  past. 

"  I  will  not  go,  dear  mother,  if  it  makes  you  unhappy," 
repeated  Edmund,  seating  himself  by  her  side.  "  I  would 
forego  every  advantage  and  crush  every  ambitious  hope, 
rather  than  make  you  a  prey  to  anxiety.  Mr.  Selwyn  will 
be  here  to-night — decide  for  me  to  him." 

"  Will  you  resign  the  certainty  of  the  first  honours  of  the 
university  ?"  asked  Homer.  "  Who  will  wear  your  laurels, 
if  you  relinquish  them  ?" 

"I  will  bequeath  them  to  you,  brother,"  replied  Ed- 
mund, smiling ;    "  if  you  are  not  already  burdened  with 
the  weight  of  your  own." 
13 


194  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

"  I  will  win  my  own  laurels,  or  never  wear  them,*  re- 
plied Homer  coldly.  "  I  am  content  to  be  second  to  Ed- 
mund in  every  thing,  or  rather  I  ought  to  be,  since  nature 
has  willed  it  so." 

"Neither  nature,  nor  justice,  nor  affection  has  willed 
it,"  cried  Edmund  warmly.  "  You  deserve  a  higher  rank 
than  myself,  and  nothing  but  modesty  and  self-distrust  pre- 
vent you  from  being  aware  of  it.  I  feel  more  proud  of 
your  reputation,  than  I  do  of  my  own,  Homer." 

"  I  believe  you,  on  my  soul  I  do,"  cried  Homer,  with 
one  of  those  sudden  bursts  of  feeling  which  sometimes 
illuminated  his  dark  countenance  ;  "  but  I  am  not  the  less 
wretched  on  that  account." 

"  Believe  me,  once  again,  dear  Homer,"  cried  Edmund, 
earnestly  grasping  his  hand,  "  when  I  tell  you,  that  it  is 
unjust,  and  ungrateful,  and  unwise,  to  let  such  feelings  as 
you  indulge  destroy  your  own  happiness  and'  that  of  your 
friends.  If  I  do  accept  Mr.  Selwyn's  offer,  one  of  my 
strong  motives  is,  to  remove  from  your  path  one  whose 
fancied  excellence  makes  you  degrade  yourself  in  your  own 
estimation."  The  youth  spoke  with  energy,  and  his 
father's  spirit  looked  forth  from  his  eyes.  Every  good  and 
noble  feeling  in  Homer's  breast  was  touched.  He  felt  the 
moral  superiority  of  Edmund,  and  writhed  under  the  con- 
sciousness of  that  jealousy  which  withered  his  heart's  best 
affections.  How  mean,  selfish,  and  cold  seemed  his  cha- 
racter in  his  own  eyes  !  How  base  and  criminal  the  master- 
passion,  whose  vassal  he  had  become  !  It  was  this  which 
had  embittered  his  father's  parting  hour,  clouded  the  bright 
prospects  of  his  brother's  youth,  and  saddened  the  home  of 
his  widowed  mother.  The  remembrance  of  man's  first 
brotherhood  was  ever  before  him — severed  by  sin,  crimsoned, 
by  blood,  branded  by  a  curse,  pursued  by  suffering,  exile, 
and  shame.  A  new  feeling,  scarcely  acknowledged  to 
himself,  and  partaking  of  the  intensity,  the  bitterness,  and 
the  gloom  of  his  character,  was  now  taking  possession  of  his 
opening  manhood. 

Mr.  Selwyn  was  announced  ;  Mrs.  Worth  turned  pale  at 
his  entrance.  The  moment  for  decision  was  come,  and  her 
heart  throbbed,  incapable  of  calmness.  He  had  been  the 
warm  friend  of  her  husband,  was  a  man  high  in  public 
confidence,  just  returned  from  foreign  lands,  where  he  had 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  195 

been  officiating  in  some  elevated  national  station,  and  was 
on  the  eve  of  departure  for  Europe,  where  he  expected  to 
remain  for  three  years.  He  was  very  rich,  a  widower 
without  children,  and  the  friends  of  Edmund  believed  that 
the  partiality  he  now  manifested  for  him  would  eventuate 
in  making  him  his  heir.  They  warmly  urged  him  to  ac- 
cept his  generous  offer. 

"  Trust  him  with  me,  madam,"  said  he,  when  he  again 
renewed  his  proposal,  "  and  you  never  shall  repent  the 
confidence  reposed ;  I  will  adopt  him  as  my  own  son,  and 
he  shall  have  every  advantage  that  wealth  and  opportunity 
can  afford.  Constantly  engaged  in  public  life,  I  have  had 
but  little  leisure  to  feel  the  loneliness  of  a  childless  heart. 
Nor  was  it  till  I  saw  your  son,  that  I  knew  of  what  strong 
unappeasable  yearnings  that  heart  is  capable.  Trust  him 
with  me,  madam,  and,  as  far  as  possible,  I  will  make  up 
to  him  what  he  has  lost  in  his  inestimable  father." 

Mrs.  Worth  wept  as  much  from  gratitude  as  memory. 
She  looked  at  Edmund,  and  read  his  wishes  in  his  kindling 
eyes.  Could  she  be  so  selfish  as  to  suffer  her  maternal  ten- 
derness to  interfere  with  the  brilliant  prospects  of  her  son  ? 
Ought  she  not  rather  to  be  proud  of  such  a  compliment  to 
his  talents,  graces,  and  virtues  ?  The  God  who  had  de- 
prived him  of  the  best  of  fathers,  had  raised  him  up  a  pow- 
erful friend  in  this  great  and  good  man.  Then  Homer,  too, 
her  strange,  wayward  first-born, — perhaps  the  flame  of 
fraternal  jealousy  would  die  away  in  his  bosom,  unfed  by 
the  presence  of  its  object.  She  thought  of  the  Hebrew 
mother,  who  committed  her  boy  to  the  waves,  in  the  confi- 
dence of  the  God  of  Israel,  and  how  this  same  feeble  child 
became  the  lawgiver  of  the  Jewish  nation  and  the  chosen 
friend  of  the  great  I  AM.  Perhaps  a  glorious  destiny 
awaited  her  son.  She  hesitated  no  longer.  But  that  night, 
long  after  every  eye  was  closed  in  sleep,  she  sat  by  her 
lonely  hearth  and  dwelt  on  the  sacrifice  she  was  about  to 
make.  To  live  three  years  uncheered  by  the  sunshine  of 
his  smile  !  How  long  in  prospective  seemed  those  weary 
years !  and  yet  three  long  years  were  passed,  since,  in  the 
agony  of  a  crushed  and  broken  heart,  she  prayed  for  strength 
to  live  for  her  children.  Prostrate  on  her  knees,  she  re- 
newed that  prayer  of  faith.  "  O  my  Father,"  cried  she, 
"  thou  hast  permitted  me  to  live  for  them,  but  let  me  not 


196 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 


ask  that  they  may  live  for  me.  Let  me  commit  them,  into 
thy  hands.  Do  with  them  whatsoever  seemeth  good  in 
thy  sight." 

When  she  rose  from  her  knees,  she  found  herself  directly 
opposite  the  portrait  of  her  husband,  and  the  features,  soft- 
ened by  the  pale  lamp-light,  seemed  to  smile  sadly  down 
upon  her.  That  picture,  since  his  death,  had  been  removed 
to  the  sacred  retirement  of  her  own  chamber.  There  it  met 
her  first  waking,  her  last  closing  glance.  There  its  deep,  still 
eyes  ever  followed  hers,  triumphing  in  their  pictured  rays, 
over  the  mists  and  shadows  of  the  tomb.  It  was  a  perfect 
likeness ;  the  canvas  lived,  breathed,  spoke — death  was 
cheated  of  his  prey. 

Every  thought  was  now  merged  in  the  absorbing  one  of 
Edmund's  departure.  Aunt  Patty,  whose  ruling  passion 
had  lost  none  of  its  strength,  expected  samples  of  all  the 
royal  robes  on  the  other  side  of  the  Atlantic.  Yet  after 
having  made  the  request,  she  recollected  that  it  must  be  a 
bad  sign,  as  she  had  given  a  bag  to  Mr.  Worth  and  it  came 
only  as  a  sad  memento  of  his  death  ;  she  told  Edmund  he 
might  bring  them  of  his  own  accord,  but  she  would  not  ask 
for  them.  Neither  would  she  allow  Estelle  or  Victorine  to 
give  him  any  parting  gifts  of  affection,  as  they  were  hence- 
forth bad  aigns,  in  her  opinion.  But  Victorine  plied  her 
unwearied  fingers  to  assist  Mrs.  Worth,  and  seemed  to 
supply  both  Emma's  and  Bessy's  place.  Edmund  was  to 
pass  through  Boston  and  meet  Bessy  there,  but  Emma  was 
too  remote  in  her  southern  home,  to  know  of  the  change 
in  her  brother's  destiny.  She  was  gathering  health,  and 
strength,  in  the  land  of  the  "  dew-dropping  south,"  and  her 
mother  would  not  hasten  her  return. 

"You  would  do  any  thing  in  the  world  for  Edmund," 
said  Homer  to  Victorine,  as  he  sat  watching  her,  while  she 
marked  his  initials  on  a  packet  of  linen.  "  You  do  not 
mean  that  he  should  forget  you." 

"  I  hope  not,  indeed,"  replied  she  quickly,  "  for  I  am 
sure  I  never  shall  forget  him.  What  shall  we  do  without 
him  ?  He  is  the  life  and  joy  of  the  whole  house.  I  be- 
lieve I  shall  sit  down  and  take  snuff  with  Aunt  Patty,  and  look 
over  all  the  scraps  she  has  gathered  since  the  world  began. 
I  shall  have  no  one  to  talk  with  when  he  is  gone,  for  1  can- 
not think  of  intruding  my  folly  on  your  dear,  sad  mother." 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  197 

"Is  ippose  you  will  not  condescend  to  talk  with  me," 
said  Homer,  drawing  his  chair  back  as  he  spoke.  "  I  know 
I  have  nothing  light  or  amusing  to  say,  but  I  should  think 
a  sensible  person  might  like  sometimes  grave  things." 

"  Oh !  I  should  like  to  talk  to  you  of  all  things,"  cried 
Victorine,  laughing  ;  "  but  you  have  such  a  terrific  counte- 
nance, and  look  so  grand  and  lofty,  you  frighten  every  idea 
out  of  my  head.  Now,  Homer,  don't  be  angry,  but  you 
are  exactly  like  Lara,  whose  description  Edmund  read  last 
evening.  Don't  you  recollect  it  ? 

"  '  He  stood,  a  stranger  in  this  breathing  world, 
An  errins  spirit  from  another  world, — 
A  thing  of  dark  imaginings,'  &c. 

Such  beings  do  splendidly  in  poetry,  but  they  won't 
pass  in  every-day  life." 

Victorine  had  all  the  French  vivacity  of  manner  and 
grace  of  motion,  which  was  conspicuous  in  her  in  child- 
hood, when  slovenliness  ( obscured  her  personal  beauty. 
She  was  the  only  one  in  the  household  who  dared  to  jest 
with  Homer.  Every  one  else  stood  in  awe  of  the  young 
misanthropist ;  even  his  mother,  fearing  to  wound  his  too 
sensitive  nature,  never  ventured  to  treat  with  levity  his 
gloomy  paroxysms.  Victorine,  alone,  like  the  harmless 
lightning  playing  over  the  thunder-cloud,  gilding  its  dark 
edges  with  the  flame  of  youthful  wit  and  merriment. 

"  The  Ethiopian  cannot  change  his  skin,  nor  the  leopard 
his  spots,"  said  Homer,  a  transient  smile  most  beautifully 
illuminating  his  countenance;  "neither  can  I  smile  like 
Edmund." 

"  Oh  !  if  you  knew  how  a  smile  became  you,"  interrupted 
she,  "  you  would  not  make  them  so  rare.  It  is  like  noon 
breaking  on  midnight, — there,  don't  frown  again,  for  I 
didn't  say  that  to  please  you,  but  for  the  sake  of  a  metaphor. 
I  don't  care,  Homer,  whether  you  smile  or  frown :  I'll 
laugh  when  you're  angry,  and  smile  when  you  smile ;  but, 
were  you  in  real  sorrow,  I  would  pity  you,  and  weep  with 
you  to  your  heart's  content." 

"  I'll  tell  you,  Victorine,  why  I  so  seldom  smile,"  replied 
he :  "  it  is  because  no  one  loves  me.  From  my  first  re- 
membrance of  feeling,  I  had  a  consciousness  of  something 
about  me  cold  and  repelling.  I  felt  that  I  could  not  inspire 


198 


AUNT   PATTY'S   SCRAP-BAG. 


sympathy  or  love,  and  I  was  too  proud  to  seek,  as  a  favour, 
what  was  denied  me  as  a  right." 

"I  thought  you  cared  not  to  be  loved,"  said  Victorine, 
more  seriously  than  she  had  hitherto  spoken.  "I  thought 
you  disdained  the  very  idea  of  being  loved,  even  by  your 
own  sisters." 

"  I !"  repeated  he,  vehemently.  "  I  would  walk  over 
burning  ploughshares,  endure  the  tortures  of  the  rack  and 
wheel ;  I  would  bear  all  the  agonies  that  man  can  inflict  or 
feel,  for  even  the  hope  to  be  loved  as  Edmund  is.  /  care 
not  to  be  loved!  The  dread,  the  fear,  the  certainty  of  never 
having  been,  of  never  being  loved,  is  the  secret  of  my 
misanthropy  and  despair.  I  would  willingly  die  to-morrow, 
to  be  drawn,  even  this  day,  as  near  to  the  heart  of  one 
human  being  as  Edmund  is." 

"  Strange  !"  said  Victorine  to  herself,  as  Homer,  ashamed 
of  the  vehemence  of  his  emotion,  abruptly  left  the  room. 
"  Strange !  that  his  heart  should  seem  to  be  filled  with 
hatred,  when  it  is  only  yearning  after  love.  I  thought  he 
was  wrapped  scornfully  up  in  himself,  and  disdained  all 
mankind.  Well !  I  am  sure  we  will  all  love  him,  if  he 
will  let  us." 

Victorine,  domesticated  as  a  child  with  the  two  brothers, 
looked  upon  them  both  with  feelings  similar  to  a  sister,  and 
addressed  them  with  the  freedom  of  one  of  an  exceedingly 
ardent  temperament ;  she  suffered  her  affections  to  flow  out 
bounteously  on  every  object  which  excited  their  interest. 
She  had  once  loved  her  cats  and  dogs  to  idolatry :  but  now 
her  more  refined  taste  and  cultivated  understanding  re- 
volted from  the  thought  of  bestowing  upon  them  the. 
caresses  due  only  to  human  beings.  She  had  loved  her 
mother,  and  mourned  her  loss  ;  but  Mrs.  Worth  seemed  to 
her  an  angel  of  light,  moving  in  a  purer  and  holier  atmo- 
sphere, and  to  diffuse  on  every  object  around  her  a  spirit  of 
purity  and  holiness.  Much  was  said,  when  this  wild, 
neglected,  but  singularly  accomplished  child  was  received 
into  her  family ;  and  some  even  dared  to  attribute  the  kind- 
ness to  mercenary  motives,  knowing  the  reputed  wealth  of 
the  girl.  "She  can  never  get  the  tangles  from  her  hair," 
said  one.  Victorine's  hair  was  now  remarkable  for  its 
glossy  waves.  "Her  skin  will  never  become  fair,"  said 
another.  Victorine's  complexion  was  now  that  of  a  pure. 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  199 

clear,  delicate  brunette.  "  She  will  never  leain  to  dress 
like  a  lady,"  cried  a  third.  Victorine  was  now  proverbial 
for  her  maidenly  neatness  and  taste  in  dress.  People  said 
Mrs.  Worth  had  wrought  a  miracle,  but  it  was  only  a 
miracle  of  love.  Perhaps  Victorine  herself  was  destined 
to  work  one  as  astonishing  and  as  unhoped  for. 

It  was  a  sad  hour  for  Edmund,  when  he  bade  adieu  to 
his  mother;  but  as  one  parting  has  been  described,  this 
shall  be  omitted  in  the  family  sketch.  Aunt  Patty  would 
not  suffer  an  eye  to  follow  him  as  he  passed  over  the 
threshold :  but  when  she  recollected  that  it  was  Friday,  bad 
Friday,  that  ill-omened  day,  her  superstitious  fears  became 
so  dark,  they  infected  the  whole  household.  It  was  the 
day  Mr.  Selwyn  had  appointed;  his  business  would  not  ad- 
mit of  delay,  and  he  was  not  a  man  to  whom  one  would 
avo\v  such  apprehensions. 

The  travellers  stopped  at  Mrs.  Wharton's,  that  Edmund 
might  bid  farewell  to  his  sister  Bessy.  It  was  their  resting- 
place  for  the  night,  and  we  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of 
introducing  another  family  picture.  The  years  which  had 
added  dignity  and  height  to  Homer  and  Edmund,  had  not 
gone  by  without  many  a  fair  gift  to  the  inmates  of  this 
household,  not  excluding  their  young  guest,  the  blue-eyed 
Bessy.  Frank  was  a  tall,  handsome,  gay,  rather  dashing 
collegian,  full  of  fun  and  frolic,  and  reckless  good-nature  ; 
and  Laura  a  fair,  fashionable-looking  maiden,  dressed  rather 
beyond  her  years,  but  with  exquisite  taste,  and  perfectly  au 
fait  in  all  the  courtesies  and  graces  of  society.  But  Bessy 
was  the  most  beautiful,  blooming,  poetic-looking  creature, 
that  ever  adorned  the  prose  realities  of  life : — beautiful  as 
the  dreams  of  her  own  bright  fancy,  and  surely  nothing 
could  go  beyond  it.  Have  you  ever  seen  a  picture  with  a 
kind  of  soft  shadow  floating  over  it, — a  mist,  as  it  were,  re- 
posing on  its  depth  of  light  and  shade  ? — so  it  was  with 
Bessy's  face.  It  was  brilliant  from  the  clearness  and 
transparency  of  its  colouring;  pensive,  from  the  softness 
and  exquisite  delicacy  of  lineament  and  expression.  And 
her  hair  still  curled,  and  rippled,  and  sported  round  her 
brow  and  about  her  neck  in  the  unshorn,  unfettered  free- 
dom of  her  infantine  beauty.  Bessy  knew  that  she  was 
beautiful,  for  flattering  tongues,  fond,  gazing  eyes,  and 
faithful  mirrors  had  too  often  repeated  this  truth.  But  the 


200  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

consciousness  of  beauty  did  not,  as  is  frequently  the  case, 
inspire  gayety  in  her.  She  had  an  image  of  ideal  beauty 
in  her  soul,  so  much  brighter  and  purer,  that  she  yearned 
after  its  realization  with  unutterable  longings.  She  had 
witnessed  the  scenes  which  Laura  described  so  glowingly, 
and  they  all  seemed  cold  and  artificial,  devoid  of  intellectual 
life.  The  conversation  which  she  heard  sounded  so  vapid, 
false,  and  senseless,  she  could  not  be  interested  in  it.  She 
was  afraid  to  express  herself  with  that  fervour  and  beauty 
of  language  peculiar  to  her,  lest  she  should  be  thought 
extravagant  and  affected ;  so,  with  a  treasury  of  rich,  burn- 
ing, glorious  thoughts  within,  she  generally  sat  silent  and 
abstracted,  pensive,  and  sometimes  even  sad.  Her  silence 
was  imputed  to  youth  and  timidity.  No  one  imagined 
what  a  peopled  world  of  her  own  she  was  inhabiting.  No 
one  dreamed  of  the  depth  of  Teeling,  the  fire  of  imagination, 
and  the  power  of  intellect  imbodied  in  that  cherubic  form. 

"  How  beautiful  is  your  sister  Bessy !"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Selwyn.  "  I  have  not  seen  her  since  she  was  a  little  child. 
I  wish  it  were  possible  to  take  her  with  us :  she  should 
have  superior  advantages.  I  have  seen  much  of  the  world, 
and  the  beauties  of  different  climes,  but  never  have  beheld 
so  lovely  a  countenance.  If  she  were  my  daughter,  I 
would  be  proud  to  present  her  at  all  the  courts  of  Europe." 

The  unconscious  Bessy  at  this  moment  approached,  and 
put  her  arm  lovingly  in  her  brother's. 

"  What  do  you  think  Mr.  Selwyn  is  saying  of  you  ?" 
said  Edmund.  "  He  wishes  you  could  go  to  Europe  with 
us.  How  would  you  like  to  travel  on  classic  ground,  to 
see  the 

'  Isles  of  Greece,  the  Isles  of  Greece, 
Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung?'  " 

The  colour  on  Bessy's  cheeks  deepened  to  crimson. 

"  Oh  !  brother,  can  I  go  ?  Is  Mr.  Selwyn  serious  ?  To 
Europe !  to  Italy,  to  the  land  of  love  and  song ! — Ah !  I 
see  you  are  sporting  with  my  enthusiasm,  by  the  smile  on 
Mr.  Selwyn's  lips." 

"  If  I  had  a  female  friend  of  sufficient  age  and  standing, 
to  be  your  protectress,  and  whom  I  could  ask  to  accompany 
us,  you  should  go,"  replied  Mr.  Selwyn.  "  But  Edmund 
shall  take  you  across  the  Atlantic  yet,  if  your  classic  en- 
thusiasm does  not  grow  cool  as  your  heart  expands  " 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  201 

"  I  thought  the  heart  had  an  expansive  power,"  answered 
Bessy,  smiling. 

"  The  enthusiasm  of  the  head  and  the  warmth  of  the 
heart  are  different,  as  you  will  one  day  experience  ;  but 
not,  I  trust,  before  we  return  ;  for  if  the  heart  should  twine 
itself  round  some  new  support,  it  would  cling  so  tightly, 
the  wings  of  enthusiasm  would  flutter  in  vain  to  bear  you 
away." 

"  There  is  no  danger  of  my  heart  clinging  more  closely 
around  any  one  than  Edmund,"  replied  Bessy  ;  "  and  one 
of  these  days  he  is  to  build  me  a  small  Grecian  temple,  and 
adorn  it  with  statuary  and  paintings,  and  shade  it  '  with 
bonny-spreading  bushes,'  and  then  we  are  to  live  together 
the  happiest  brother  and  sister  in  the  world.  Homer  and 
Emma  are  to  dwell  in  some  baronial  castle,  lonely,  grand, 
and  inaccessible ;  where  the*  walls  are  mouldy  with  the 
damps  of  ages,  and  the  midnight  shadows  are  peopled  with 
apparitions." 

"A  few  years  hence,"  said  Mr.  Selwyn,  "your  castles 
in  the  air  will  be  made  of  very  different  materials."  And 
as  he  looked  upon  those  two  charming  beings,  thus  linked 
together  by  the  ties  of  affection,  the  strongest,  the  fondest 
they  yet  had  known,  he  sighed  to  think  what  bitter  lessons 
life  might  have  in  store  for  them,  when  they  learned  the 
strength  of  that  love  which  is  the  over-mastering  passion 
of  the  human  heart. 

"  What  are  you  talking  about  ?  Grecian  temples  and 
baronial  castles !"  said  Frank,  who,  with  Laura,  now 
joined  the  trio.  "  I  have  no  idea  of  these  exclusives  ;  and 
whether  you  live  in  temple,  castle,  cottage,  or  cabin,  I 
shall  be  certain  to  squeeze  in  as  priest,  warder,  gardener, 
or  wood-cutter." 

"  Oh  !  you  would  spoil  all  Bessy's  poetry  and  sentiment," 
said  Edmund,  laughing.  "  You  are  too  much  of  the  earth, 
earthy ;  you  could  not  live  on  nectar  and  ambrosia ;  and 
Bessy  will  have  no  grosser  viands  at  her  table." 

"  Now  Bessy  and  I  are  the  very  persons  to  live  to- 
gether," said  Frank ;  "as  I  am  earthy,  I  should  bring  her 
down  from  the  skies  occasionally,  to  hold  communion  with 
me ;  and  she,  being  of  heaven,  heavenly,  would  draw  me 
after  her :  so  the  two  forces,  constantly  acting,  would  pro- 
duce at  last  the  right  equilibrium." 


202  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

"  I  thought  Victorine  was  your  heroine,"  cried  Launi  ; 
"  you  admired  her  so  much  in  her  beautiful  flowered  dress 
and  fancy  hair,  as  you  called  it — they  say  she  is  quite  be- 
witching now." 

"I  will  leave  Victorine  for  Homer.  He  is  grand, 
gloomy,  and  peculiar  ;  and  she  bright,  sparkling  and  gay. 
There  should  always  be  a  contrast,  to  produce  that  delight- 
ful equilibrium!  was  speaking  of  just  now." 

"Who  will  contrast  with  me,  brother?"  asked  Laura. 
"  You  have  entirely  slighted  me." 

"  There  is  no  one  left  for  you  but  Edmund,  and  he  is 
entirely  too  perfect  to  contrast  with  any  one,  unless  it  is  the 
witch  of  Endor  herself.  I  don't  know  you  yet,  Laura,  but  I 
believe  you  have  more  character  than  we  dream  of;  you 
are  trying  hard  to  be  a  fine  lady,  but  you  are  meant  for 
something  better  or  worse,  after  all ;  upon  the  whole,  you 
and  Edmund  would  do  admirably  together  :  as -for  Homer, 
he  is  the  hero  of  the  drama,  the  Corsair,  the  Paul  Clifford, 
the  Charles  de  Moor,  for  whom  half  a  dozen  maidens  may 
yet  die." 

"  And  what  will  you  do  for  poor  Emma  ?"  said  Bessy, 
amused  at  Frank's  arrangements  for  the  future.  "  There 
is  no  one  good  enough  for  Emma." 

"  Emma  !"  repeated  Frank,  "  Oh !  I  forgot  Emma — 
though  she  is  so  young,  she  is  so  thoughtful  and  pious,  she 
always  seemed  to  me  like  old  folks.  I'll  give  her  to  Mr. 
Selwyn,  for  I  remember  her  saying  one  day,  he  was  the 
handsomest  man  she  ever  saw,  except  her  father." 

Mr.  Selwyn  blushed  at  the  compliment,  but  looked 
kindly  on  the  bold,  gay  youth,  who  dared  to  utter  it.  He 
said  he  intended  to  have  a  patriarchal  establishment,  and 
when  they  were  all  married,  they  should  come  and  live 
with  him,  and  he  hoped  to  see  their  children's  children 
even  unto  the  third  and  fourth  generation.  He  pondered 
Frank's  sayings  in  his  heart.  "  Let  us  see  a  few  years 
hence,"  thought  he,  "  whether  he  has  spoken  in  the  spirit 
of  prophecy.  These  girls  and  boys  will  then  be  men  and 
women,  and  these  words  of  jest  may  be  remembered  as  the 
shadowing  forth  of  their  future  destiny." 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  203 


CHAPTER  VU. 

SHALL  we  look  over  Bessy's  shoulder,  while  she  reads 
a  letter  from  Emma,  dated  about  the  time  when  Edmund, 
unknown  to  her,  began  his  transatlantic  tour?  We  would 
like  to  see  her  impressions  of  a  southern  life,  as  contrasted 
with  her  northern  home. 

"  DEAR  BESSY  : — I  can  scarcely  realize  that  I  am  address- 
ing you,  in  the  very  depth  of  winter,  for  gales  soft  as  sum- 
mer are  fanning  my  cheek.  To  be  sure,  there  is  a  bright 
fire  glowing  in  the  chimney,  but  the  doors  and  windows  are 
all  open ;  and  Mrs.  Woodville,  or  Aunt  Woodville,  is  sew- 
ing in  the  piazza ;  I  can  imagine  you  all  gathered  round 
the  blazing  hearth,  shivering  if  the  door  is  accidentally  left 
ajar,  with  your  listed  windows  and  doors,  your  banks  of 
tan  round  the  walls  of  the  house,  your  deep  white  paths 
through  the  drifted  snow,  and  all  the  chill  paraphernalia 
of  winter.  We  have  the  music  of  sweet  singing  birds,  you 
the  jingling  of  the  merry-going  bells.  There  are  beautiful 
roses  blooming  in  the  garden,  such  as  we  cherish  at  home 
as  rare  exotics,  protecting  them  from  every  breath  of 
winter.  Oh  !  Bessy,  you  need  not  wonder  that  I  feel  like  a 
new  being,  when  such  frail,  delicate  things  as  flowers 
bloom  fearless  and  unharmed  by  frost  or  cold.  My  breath 
no  longer  labours  in  my  bosom ;  it  comes  and  goes  without 
my  knowing  it,  and  my  heart  no  longer  throbs  wearily 
against  my  aching  side  ;  Aunt  Woodville  is  very  kind  to 
me ;  she  sends  me  out  every  morning  to  ride  before  break- 
fast, on  a  little  pony,  accompanied  by  Uncle  Jack,  as  my 
gallant.  You  must  know  I  have  as  many  uncles  and 
aunts  as  there  are  negroes  on  the  plantation,  and  I  have 
already  become  so  much  attached  to  them,  I  am  very  will- 
ing to  give  them  that  endearing  title.  They  will  do  any 
thing  in  the  world  for  Miss  Emma,  '  bless  her  little  heart,' 
they  say.  You  know  the  prejudices  I  had  against  negroes, 
before  I  came,  but  I  find  them  so  kind  and  pleasant,  I  fear  I 
shall  like  them  better  than  our  own  white  servants.  Aunt 
Charity  is  just  coming  up  the  steps,  with1  a  backet  of  cold 


204 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 


water,  balanced  on  her  head,  her  right  hand  touching  tha 
edge  of  the  pail,  her  left  resting  on  her  hip.  You  cannot 
think  what  a  picturesque  and  graceful  attitude  this  is,  and 
could  you  see  half  a  dozen  of  them  walking  from  the  spring, 
bearing  in  this  manner  their  brimming  buckets,  you  would 
be  convinced  that  labour  did  not  necessarily  bow  the  figure 
and  deprive  it  of  all  grace  of  motion.  I  used  to  think  rich 
southern  planters  had  nothing  to  do,  with  so  many  slaves  to 
\vait  upon  them,  but  I  am  sure  my  dear  mother  would 
think  it  a  weary  task  if  she  had  to  carry  about  a  big  bunch 
of  keys,  like  Aunt  Woodville,  and  keep  so  many  people  at 
work  about  her.  Her  house  is  as  neat  as  wax,  and  I  could 
not  use  a  better  comparison,  for  her  summer  parlour  and 
bedroom  have  waxed  floors,  which  shine  so  that  you  may 
see  your  face  in  them,  and  they  are  so  smooth  that  there  is 
great  danger  of  your  sliding  down.  In  the  large  hall,  there 
is  a  little  shelf  where  a  bucket  of  cool  water  always  stands, 
an  object  of  perfect  admiration  to  me.  The  wood  is  as 
white  as  snow,  and  it  is  hooped  with  burnished  brass,  and 
there  is  a  dipper  in  it,  made  of  the  cocoa-nut  shell,  rimmed 
with  silver.  This  is  a  trifling  thing  to  mention,  but  it  seems 
to  me  more  characteristic  of  the  south  than  any  thing  else. 
I  will  relate  one  anecdote  for  Estelle's  amusement.  We 
have  a  little  black  girl  here  of  the  name  of  Sukey,  who 
waits  particularly  on  me.  The  other  day  I  asked  her  how 
long  it  would  be  before  supper  was  ready,  as  I  wanted  to 
take  a  walk.  '  Oh !'  said  she,  '  it  will  be  a  good  little 
heap  of  a  piece  of  a  while.'  But  this  is  not  my  anecdote  : 
one  evening  soon  after  my  arrival,  as  I  was  sadly  wander- 
ing about  in  the  yard,  I  heard  Aunt  Charity  calling  in  the 
most  mournful  accents  on  the  name  of  Sukey — again  and 
again  she  repeated  the  sound.  'Is  Sukey  lost,'  said  I, 
beginning  to  be  anxious  for  my  little  waiting-maid.  '  No ! 
I  hope  not,'  said  she,  Aj  always  calls  'urn  home,  at  night.' 
'Does  she  go  away  so. Tar  every  night?'  said  I ;  'I  should 
think  she  was  too  small ;  I  wonder  Aunt  Woodville  lets 
her.'  Here  Aunt  Charity  showed  her  white  teeth  from  ear 
to  ear.  . '  Oh  !  Miss  Emma,  you  are  so  funny — some  of  'um 
little,  some  If  'um  big ;  misses  don't  worry  herself  about 
'um.'  I  did  not  quite  understand  Aunt  Charity,  but  hear- 
ing her  continue  to  invoke  Sukey  so  mournfully,  I  offered 
to  go  with  her  in  search  of  the  lost  child.  Aunt  Charity 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  205 

stared  at  me  a  moment,  then  held  tight  by  the  fence  and 
laughed  and  shook,  as  only  a  negro  can  laugh  and  shake. 
'It's  the  cows,  Miss  Emma — the  cows — we  all  calls  'em 
Sukey.'  Uncle  Woodville  was  so  much  amused  at  my 
mistake,  that  he  has» called  me  Sukey  ever  since. 

"  Dearest  Bessy, — The  sweet  briar  enclosed  in  this  letter 
was  plucked  from  my  father's  grave.  I  have  enclosed  a 
spiig  to  my  mother,  as  the  most  sacred — the  most  precious 
of  {41  earthly  mementoes.  Every  evening,  when  it  does  not 
rain,  I  walk  to  this  hallowed  spot,  and  I  feel  as  if  your  spirits 
were  all  hovering  near  me,  to  hold  communion  with  the  saint- 
ed dead.  When  I  first  saw  that  grave,  I  thought  my  heart 
would  break.  I  threw  myself  on  the  cold  clay,  and  clung  to 
it,  as  if  it  were  the  sacred  body  of  our  father,  given  back  to 
my  arms.  I  called  upon  his  name,  but  the  sighing  of  the 
long  grass  alone  sounded  in  my  ears  ;  the  chill  of  the  damp 
earth  penetrated  to  my  very  soul,  and  I  remembered  the 
warm  breast  where  I  had  once  pillowed  my  head,  and  the 
contrast  was  agony.  When  I  arose  and  looked  up,  the  set- 
ting sun  shed  such  a  mild  light  on  the  shadows  of  that 
mournful  place,  I  felt  that  the  world  was  not  all  darkness ; 
I  recollected  that  beautiful  passage  of  scripture  :  'And  the 
sun  of  righteousness  shall  arise  with  healing  in  his  beams.' 
I  no  longer  thought  of  my  father  as  mouldering  beneath  the 
clods  of  the  valley,  but  as  an  angel  in  heaven,  more  glorious 
than  the  sun,  yet  ever  becoming  more  and  more  glorious. 
Many  a  time,  dear  Bessy,  when  I  went  to  kneel  by  that 
grave  of  our  father,  I  thought  I  should  soon  sleep  coldly 
and  quietly  by  his  dear  side  ;  and  all  unconscious  as  he  there 
lies,  it  seemed  to  me,  that  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  him,  to 
have  his  'young  moralist'  reposing  so  near  him.  Oh! 
how  many  dark  and  sweet  thoughts  were  blended  in  my 
mind.  I  wanted,  if  I  died,  to  be  buried  in  the  same  coffin, 
to  be  wrapped  in  the  same  winding-sheet ;  and  then,  when 
the  last  trumpet  should  sound,  the  arms  of  my  father  would 
enfold  me,  and  bear  me  tenderly  to  the  mercy-seat  of  my 
Saviour  and  my  God.  Do  not  let  mother  see  this  part  of 
my  letter,  for  I  fear  it  would  make  her  sad  ;  I  would  only 
bring  to  her  the  sweetest  and  holiest  memories;  I  would 
it'll  her  how  lovely  the  pale  rose  of  winter  blooms  on  the 
soil  that  covers  his  ashes ;  how,  like  a  celestial  ministrant. 
the  moon  comes  down,  and  covers  it  with  a  silver  pall,  and 


206  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

makes  the  place  of  graves  beautiful  as  the  gate  of  heaven. 
I  would  tell  her,  how  every  one  here  worships  his  memory; 
how  the  tongue  of  the  African,  as  well  as  the  white  man, 
grows  eloquent  in  his  praise.  How  I  wish  they  could  see 
Edmund,  or  you,  Bessy ;  I  am  such  a  poor,  frail  creature, 
the  only  feeling  I  can  excite  is  compassion,  yet  I  am  daily 
stronger  and  better ;  they  tell  me  I  am  getting  rosy  ;  you 
know  with  what  reluctance  I  left  home,  and  what  a  poor 
return  I  made  for  Uncle  Woodville's  kindness,  who  came 
so  much  out  of  his  way,  to  induce  me  to  accompany  him 
back  from  the  north.  He  had  heard  our  dear  father 
speak  so  tenderly  of  his  invalid  daughter,  and  of  his  wish 
that  she  should  breathe  the  soft  gales  of  the  south ;  the 
good  man  sought  me  out  and  would  not  be  denied.  Surely 
a  kind  Providence  directed  his  steps  ;  for  the  sickly  plant 
has  indeed  revived,  and  rejoices  in  the  sunshine  and  the 
dew.  I  am  writing  you  a  long  letter,  but  so  many  things 
crowd  for  expression,  I  cannot  lay  down  my  pen.  I  had  a 
long  letter  from  Homer  last  week.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  it 
affected  me,  it  was  very  kind,  but  very  melancholy  ;  he 
says,  we  mus*.  live  together,  for  I  understand  him  better 
than  any  one  else,  and  am  not  so  selfishly  happy  as  the  rest 
of  the  world.  Poor  Homer  !  if  he  only  knew  how  well  we 
all  loved  him,  he  would  not  make  us  so  sad  as  he  does. 
Tell  Aunt  Patty,  that  Aunt  Woodville  has  collected  a  creat 
many  pieces  of  calico  for  her  scrap-bag,  and  has  told  me 
so  many  pleasant  incidents  connected  with  them,  I  fear  I 
cannot  remember  them  all ;  tell  her,  everybody  here  knows 
Aunt  Patty  and  loves  her  too,  for  a  certain  somebody  has 
talked  a  great  deal  about  her  ;  and  I  have  no  doubt,  she  has 
fi-It  her  left  ear  burn  very  often — a  sign,  you  know,  that  some 
one  is  praising  her  very  hard.  Dear  little  Estelle  !  tell  her 
she  must  water  my  geraniums,  and  move  them  where  the 
sun  shines  warmest  in  the  day,  and  the  fire  has  diffused  its 
heat  at  night.  Oh  !  the  sweet  flowers  of  the  south  !  yet  I 
would  give  them  all,  even  in  their  spring  glory,  for  a 
glimpse  of  the  snows  that  surround  my  northern  home. 
One  little  circumstance,  my  beloved  sister,  I  must  not  omit, 
though,  if  it  aflects  you  as  it  did  me,  this  paper  will  be  blot- 
ted with  your  tears.  I  was  rambling  in  the  woods  that 
skirt  the  cultivated  grounds,  and  stopped  under  a  large 
beech,  that  hung  over  a  narrow  stream,  or  branch  as  it  's 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  207 

here  called.  There  was  a  gray  trunk  fallen  just  at  the  foot 
of  this  noble  tree ;  I  sat  down  and  listened  to  the  gurgling 
waters,  when  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  letters  engraved  on  the 
bark  of  the  beech  tree.  First  on  the  silver  rind  was  the 
name  of  our  beloved  mother,  then  her  children,  from  the 
first-born  Homer,  to  little  Estelle.  Ah  !  whose  hand  had 
carved  these  characters?  who  had  sat,  like  me,  on  that 
gray  fallen  trunk,  and  thought  of  the  dear  ones  left  behind  ? 
Where  is  the  traveller  now  ?  Where  I  perchance  may  soon 
be,  and  one  of  those  loved  ones,  it  may  be  my  own  Bessy, 
may  wander  to  this  spot,  and  sit  under  this  spreading 
beech,  and  weep  for  me,  as  I  have  wept  for  him.  I  have 
touched  a  sad  chord,  but  I  did  not  intend  it.  This  is  such 
a  place  for  memory,  it  is  difficult  to  be  cheerful  and  thought- 
ful at  the  same  time ;  yet  you  must  not  think  of  me  as 
otherwise  than  happy.  If  I  were  not  so,  I  should  be  the 
most  ungrateful  being  in  the  world.  Forgive  my  egotism  ; 
I  have  written  so  much  of  myself,  I  am  ashamed  to  look 
back.  But  of  whom  do  you  wish  to  hear,  in  this  land  of 
strangers,  more  than  your  own  affectionate  EMMA." 

We  love  family  letters,  and  would  gladly  transcribe  the 
correspondence  of  the  brothers  and  sisters,  during  their  se- 
paration from  each  other.  But  we  fear  others  may  not 
have  congenial  tastes,  and  would  find  them  too  unvarying 
and  quiet,  to  satisfy  that  love  of  excitement  which  is  fed  by 
stirring  incidents  and  unfolding  passions.  Edmund  wrote 
volumes  in  his  long  epistles ;  but  the  ground  he  travelled 
was  classic,  and  every  particle  of  dust  on  which  he  trod  has 
been  made  sacred  by  the  children  of  genius  and  of  song. 
His  pages  would  present  nothing  new  to  the  reader,  though 
they  were  read  with  rapture  and  enthusiasm  by  those  to 
whom  they  were  addressed.  Bessy  was  his  particular  cor- 
respondent ;  and  she  now  poured  forth  her  soul  in  harmo- 
nious numbers,  for  she  had  discovered  she  had  the  gift  of 
song.  Her  spirit,  like  the  ^Eolian  harp, responded  in  music 
to  every  breath  that  swept  over  it,  and  thrilled  with  trans- 
port at  its  wild  melody. 

"  Charming  child  !"  Mr.  Selwyn  would  exclaim,  when  he 
perused  these  beautiful  effusions  of  youthful  genius  ;  "  she 
shall  yet  visit  classic  ground.  She  will  be  a  Corinna,  with- 
out her  imperfections." 

The  time  of  Edmund's  absence  was  shortened  by  one 


208  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

year,  in  consequence  of  some  new  arrangements  of  Mr.  SeJ- 
wyn,  and  it  is  astonishing  how  quickly  two  years  glided  by, 
bringing  back  the  young  traveller  to  his  native  soil.  It  was 
rather  more  than  two  years,  however  ;  for  when  he  left  home 
it  was  in  the  depth  of  winter,  and  now  it  was  in  the  full 
bloom  of  summer.  As  they  approached  the  house  in  the 
hush  of  a  moonlight  evening,  Edmund's  feelings  became  so 
intense,  he  would  not  bear  that  even  Mr.  Selwyn  should 
witness  the  meeting.  He  was  no  longer  a  boy,  yet  he  knew 
that  he  should  give  way  to  boyish  emotion,  and,  leaping 
from  the  carriage,  he  jumped  over  the  garden  railing,  and 
opened  a  side  gate,  which  brought  him  unobserved  to  the 
end  of  the  piazza,  where  two  couple  sat  in  the  moonlight,  at 
some  distance  from  each  other.  Edmund  stood  still  a  mo- 
ment, and  contemplated  these  figures,  with  a  throbbing 
heart.  The  two  nearest  him  were  immediately  recognised 
— the  dark  brow  of  Homer  was  bent  towards  the  upturned 
face  of  Victorine,  whose  brilliant  eyes  could  never  be  mis- 
taken for  another's.  She  leaned  back  against  a  pillar,  and 
the  vine  that  encircled  it  drooped  its  dew;,  leaves  on  her 
sable  hair.  .There  was  something  exquisitely  graceful  in 
the  abandonment  of  her  attitude,  and  the  contour  of  her  head, 
defined  on  the  green  curtain-work  behind.  He  was  talking 
in  a  deep  under-tone,  and  she  was  listening;  but  her  eyes 
wandered  over  the  firmament,  as  if  troubled  by  the  burning 
gaze  of  his. 

"  He  loves  her,"  thought  Edmund  ;  "  two  years  have  not 
passed  away  in  vain  for  him.  God  bless  thee,  my  brother, 
and  not  only  fill  thy  heart  with  love  for  her,  but  for  me,  and 
all  mankind." 

His  eyes  turned  to  the  other  pair,  who  sat  side  by  side,  at 
the  other  end  of  the  piazza,  equally  absorbed  by  each  other. 
That  young  female  form  could  belong  to  no  other  than  his 
sister  Bessy.  Such  angel  hair  never  adorned  any  other 
head  but  hers.  And  who  was  the  young  man  that  sat  so 
near  her,  that  the  night  gale,  as  it  fanned  them,  blew  her 
ringlets  against  his  cheek,  that  evidently  inclined  to  meet 
their  soft  caress  ? 

Edmund  felt  a  sudden  pang,  at  sight  of  this  stranger  ad- 
mitted to  such  near  communion  with  his  beautiful  sister. 
He  had  been  exiled  from  his  maternal  home,  a  wanderer  to 
various  climes,  but  he  had  brought  back  unchanged  affec- 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCTRAP-BAG.  209 

tions,  a  heart  in  which  fraternal  love  was  still  the  ruling1 
principle.  He  returned  to  find  himself  supplanted,  as  it 
were,  in  the  bosom  of  others.  Homer  and  Victorine,  Bessy 
and  the  stranger,  thus  sat  in  the  silence  of  that  moonlight 
eve,  as  if  the  world  contained  no  beings  but  themselves,  and 
as  if  the  moon  revealed  the  secret  of  her  glory  alone  for  them. 

"  Where  is  my  mother  and  Emma?"  thought  Edmund, 
catching  the  glimpse  of  a  lamp,  through  the  white  curtains 
of  his  mother's  window ;  "  dear  old  Aunt  Patty,  and  darling 
Estelle  ?"  He  turned  softly,  and  passing  through  a  grove 
of  lilac  trees,  entered  a  side  door,  which  was  left  open,  and 
stood  at  the  entrance  of  his  mother's  room.  She  sat  at  table 
reading.  Letters  were  scattered  around  her  which  seemed 
to  be  his  own,  which  she  had  been  re-perusing.  Time,  as 
if  charmed  with  her  sweet,  matronly  graces,  had  touched 
her  so  gently,  that  he  had  not  left  the  slightest  impress  of 
his  defacing  fingers.  It  was  very  thoughtless — very  impru- 
dent— but  Edmund  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  stealing 
noiselessly  behind  her  chair,  and  clasping  her  in  his  arms 
before  she  was  aware  of  his  presence.  The  cry  of  joyful 
amazement  that  resounded  through  the  house,  brought  all  its 
inmates,  but  poor  Aunt  Patty,  gathered  together  in  Mrs. 
Worth's  apartment.  Even  the  stranger  hurried  to  the  door, 
but  drew  respectfully  back,  as  if  conscious  the  scene  should 
be  sacred  from  intrusion.  Emma  and  Estelle  came  flying 
down  stairs  in  their  loose  white  robes,  which  Edmund  after- 
wards declared  were  the  most  becoming  dresses  they  had 
ever  worn. 

" Oh!  Edmund,  how  tall  you  are  grown  !"  "  How  sun- 
ourned  you  are  !"  "  How  well  you  look  !"  "  When  did 
you  come  ?"  "  And  how  did  you  get  in  ?"  Such  ejacula- 
tions were  showered  into  his  ears,  while  his  hands  were 
grasped  by  half  a  dozen  pair  of  loving  hands,  and  as  many 
pair  of  arms  tried  to  encircle  his  neck. 

"  Who  would  not  cross  the  Atlantic  for  such  a  welcome 
nome  ?"  cried  he,  in  the  midst  of  that  soft  prison  of  snowy 
arms.  "  Emma,  the  south  winds  have  blown  kindly  on  you, 
they  have  given  colour  and  health  to  your  cheek.  Ana 
Bessy" — he  remembered  the  stranger  in  the  piazza,  and 
looked  earnestly  upon  her.  She  blushed,  and  leaned  her 
face  on  his  shoulder.  "  Do  you  love  no  one  better  than  Ed 
mund  yet  ?" 
14 


210  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

«« Oh !  no  one  in  the  world,"  replied  she  hastily ;  »«  on- 
grateful  brother,  to  ask  such  a  question,  when  my  heart  ia 
aching  from  the  very  fulness  of  its  joy  and  love  !" 

"  Don't  you  want  to  see  Aunt  Patty,  Edmund  ?  Poor 
Aunt  Patty  !"  asked  Estelle,  sadly. 

"  Aunt  Patty  !"  repeated  Edmund,  starting.  "  She  is 
not  dead  ?" 

"  No  :"  cried  Estelle  ;  "  but,  she  can't  walk  any  more, 
and  has  to  stay  in  her  own  room  all  the  time,  and  sit  in  a 
big  arm-chair.  Come  and  see  her,  Edmund  ;  she  told  me 
to  bring  you  up." 

Estelle  led  her  brother  up  the  winding  stairs,  to  the 
chamber  of  Aunt  Patty,  while  Emma  and  Bessy  followed 
close  behind.  There  sat  Aunt  Patty  in  the  big  arm-chair, 
a  little  table  close  beside  her,  on  which  lay  her  snuff-box, 
and  spectacles,  and  a  pile  of  books.  Her  head  was  drawn 
on  one  side,  and  her  whole  appearance  spoke  increased  in- 
firmity. Edmund  was  so  much  grieved  at  this  unexpected 
change,  that  he  held  her  hand  in  silence,  while  she  shook 
his  as  if  she  would  never  release  her  grasp,  smiling  and 
ejaculating, — "  How  handsome  you  have  grown  !  How 
like  a  man  you  look !  As  good  as  ever,  I  know !  Did  you 
bring  some  pretty  pieces  for  poor  old  Aunt  Patty  ?  Estelle 
is  making  them  into  a  fine  bed-quilt  for  me,  so  there  will  be 
no  danger  of  their  getting  lost.  I  can't  walk  about  any  more, 
but  I've  so  many  feet  to  run  for  me,  I  hardly  miss  my  own." 

Edmund  assured  her  that  he  had  brought  beautiful 
specimens  of  English  and  French  silk  and  calico,  and  that 
he  could  tell  her  a  great  many  anecdotes  of  ladies  who 
wore  similar  dresses.  In  the  morning  he  would  unpack 
his  trunk  and  display  his  collection  of  European  curiosities. 
Estelle  longed  not  more  impatiently  for  the  morning's  dawn, 
than  Aunt  Patty,  whose  strange  ruling  passion  seemed  to 
gather  strength  as  her  physical  powers  declined. 

Mr.  Selwyn's  arrival  was  hailed  with  a  joy  which,  though 
less  vehement,  was  as  heartfelt  as  that  which  greeted  the 
return  of  Edmund.  They  greeted  him  as  a  benefactor, 
friend, — almost  as  a  father.  Though  he  was  certainly  not 
a  vain  man,  he  could  not  help  looking  kindly  at  Emma,  re- 
membering Frank's  parting  jests.  Emme,  whose  affection 
for  her  father  bordered  on  adoration,  felt  as  if  she  could  al- 
most worship  the  man  who  was  his  early  friend  and  as- 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  211 

Bociate.  His  character,  too,  was  such  as  her  serious  and 
reflecting  mind  knew  how  to  appreciate.  Its  philanthropy, 
its  magnanimity,  disinterestedness,  justice,  loftiness,  and 
piety,  constituted  her  idea  of  a  Christian  gentleman. 
Bessy  compared  him  to  the  oak,  under  whose  shade  the 
wayfaring  man  and  the  child  find  refreshment  and  rest ; 
but  Emma  thought  the  beautiful  similitude  of  scripture, 
"  The  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land,"  more 
striking.  She  loved  the  book  of  God,  and  as  naturally 
sought  its  divine  metaphors  as  the  panting  hart  the  cooling 
stream. 

The  stranger  of  the  piazza  was  introduced  by  the  name 
of  Vivian.  In  spite  of  his  efforts  to  prevent  it,  Edmund 
could  not  help  bowing  coldly  to  one  who  seemed  to  have 
come  so  near  the  heart  of  Bessy.  Who  was  he  ?  Whence 
came  he?  By  what  right  was  he  domesticated  in  the 
family  circle  ?  Estelle,  who  dearly  loved  to  tell  news 
and  create  surprises,  answered  all  these  questions  without 
his  asking  one.  "  I  have  got  something  to  show  you," 
whispered  she,  mysteriously.  "  Come  with  me  without 
letting  Bessy  see  you,  for  that  would  spoil  it  all."  Glidirtg 
before  him  with  a  lamp  carefully  shaded  by  her  hand,  she 
conducted  him  to  a  little  back-parlour,  which  his  father  had 
occupied  as  a  study.  The  books  still  remained  as  he  had 
last  arranged  them,  but  every  thing  else  was  changed. 
The  windows  were  darkened  by  green  curtains,  drawn 
closely,  except  one,  through  which  the  moon  looked,  as  a 
celestial  amateur,  on  one  of  the  purest  productions  of  human' 
art.  In  the  centre  of  the  room  stood  an  easel,  sustaining  a 
canvas,  on  which  glowed  the  lineaments  of  an  angel,  a 
muse,  or  a  grace, — just  as  the  imagination  of  the  gazer 
pleased  to  decide.  The  soft,  blue  eyes  were  turned  up- 
wards with  a  kind  of  wistful,  languishing  expression,  as  if 
they  yearned  after  the  heavenly  and  unseen,  finding  nothing 
amidst  the  earthly  and  the  seen  to  satisfy  the  cravings  of 
the  heart.  The  hair  fell  back,  like  a  golden  halo,  around 
the  calm,  beauteous  brow,  melting  away  in  the  shadows  of 
the  back-ground  ;  the  hands  were  clasped,  as  in  the  attitude 
of  prayer,  and  gently  raised  above  a  circle  of  transparent, 
rose-tinted  clouds,  that  rolled  over  the  fore-ground,  threaten- 
ing to  veil  the  fair  head  with  their  gauze-like  folds.  Edmund 
stood  gazing  so  long  at  this  picture,  that  Estelle's  hand 


212  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

ached  from  holding  the  lamp,  and  she  quietly  deposited  it 
on  the  floor.  Though  Edmund  had  not  spoken  one  word, 
she  knew  that  intense  admiration  closed  his  lips  ;  and  there 
was  something  too  sublime  to  her  in  his  silence,  for  her  to 
dare  to  break  it.  As  the  lamp-light  receded,  the  moon's 
rays  fell  gloriously  upon  it,  and  the  shadow  of  the  lattice 
was  reflected  on  the  face.  "How  beautiful!"  at  length 
exclaimed  Edmund.  "  How  lovely  !  What  a  perfect  like- 
ness,— yet  what  an  angel  countenance  !  Who  is  the  artist  ? 
He  should  be  immortal !" 

"  It's  Mr.  Vivian,"  said  Estelle ;  "  the  gentleman  you 
saw  here  just  now.  He  was  travelling,  and  saw  Bessy  at 
church,  and  wanted  to  make  her  picture  to  carry  off  to 
Italy.  He's  painted  one  for  himself,  and  this  is  for 
mother.  He's  waiting  to  paint  you  too,  for  he  heard 
mother  say  she  would  give  all  the  world  for  your  likeness, 
when  you  were  gone.  And  we  all  want  him  to  paint 
mother,  and  I  want  him  to  take  Aunt  Patty." 

Estelle  paused  to  take  breath,  and  to  watch  the  effect  of 
her  wonderful  communications.  Edmund  still  kept  his 
fascinated  gaze  on  the  illuminated  canvas,  thrilling  under 
the  magic  spell  of  genius. 

"  Who  and  what  is  this  young  man  ?"  cried  he  again. 

"It's  Mr.  Vivian,  I  told  you,  brother,"  repeated  Estelle, 
a  little  impatiently ;  "  he's  going  to  paint  me  in  Aunt 
Patty's  lap,  holding  her  snuff-box ;  and  she's  to  be  sorting 
out  pieces  of  calico.  That  big  canvas  there  is  for  us." 

"  And  what  does  he  ask  for  all  his  pictures  ?"  inquired 
Edmund. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  the  little  girl,  thoughtfully,  "but 
1  heard  him  tell  Bessy  once  she  would  pay  him  for  all. 
That  is  not  fair,  is  it,  brother?" 

"  And  what  did  Bessy  say  ?" 

"  I  didn't  hear  what  she  said,  but  she  turned  away  her 
head  as  if  she  didn't  like  it ;  I  know  I  wouldn't." 

Edmund  felt  a  soft  arm  twining  round  his,  and  looking 
down  he  saw  the  sweet  original  of  the  picture  at  his  side. 

"  Is  it  like  me,  brother  ?" 

"Yes:  but  it  makes  my  heart  ache  to  look  at  that 
picture." 

«« You  don't  like  it,  then." 

•  I  could  gaze  on  it  for  ever, — but — Estelle,  my  darling, 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  213 

lake  back  the  lamp  to  the  parlour,  and  we  will  follow  you 
directly.  The  moon  gives  light  enough  for  us." 

Estelle  took  up  the  lamp,  and  walked  slowly  out  of  the 
room,  feeling  somewhat  slighted  after  the  pains  she  had 
taken  to  exhibit  the  portrait.  Edmund  drew  his  sister  to 
the  window,  and  once  again  repeated  the  earnest  question, 
"  Who  is  this  young  man  ?" 

"  He  is  an  artist !" 

"  I  know  it, — and  a  glorious  one  !     What  else  ?" 

"  He  is  a  poet !    He  writes  divinely,  as  he  paints." 

"And  what  else,  my  sister?     Forgive  this  inquisition." 

"  He  is  a  devoted  son  and  affectionate  brother,"  answered 
Bessy,  in  a  firmer  tone.  "  He  supports  a  widowed  mother 
and  orphan  sister  by  the  works  of  his  genius." 

"If  so,  I  honour  him.  And  yet  he  is  willing  to  linger  here 
for  weeks,  askingnoother  recompense  than  my  sister's  heart." 

"Edmund!" 

There  were  tears  in  Bessy's  voice,  as  some  beautiful 
writer  has  expressed  it,  and  Edmund's  heart  smote  him 
with  a  sense  of  unkindness. 

'•  I  have  been  gone  a  long  time,  Bessy,  and  during  my 
absence  I  have  yearned  after  my  sisters  with  undivided 
tenderness.  I  return  and  find  a  stranger  occupying  the 
place  I  left,  and  supplanting  me  in  the  bosom  of  one,  per- 
haps the  best  beloved, — I  may  be  a  little  jealous  and  self- 
ish,— -but  I  am  jealous  for  you  also,  and  would  not  willingly 
yield  my  place  to  one  who  is  not  supremely  worthy." 

"Your  place,  Edmund,  will  never  be  yielded  to  another. 
But  fhe  heart  must  be  very  narrow,  indeed,  that  has  not 
room  for  any  but  brothers  and  sisters.  It  seems  to  me,  the 
more  one  loves,  the  more  one  is  capable  of  loving.  I  know 
but  little  by  experience,  but  I  believe  the  ocean's  waters 
can  hardly  be  compared  in  breadth  and  depth  to  the  love 
of  the  human  heart." 

"  One  question  more,  dear  Bessy " 

"  No,  no,  Edmund ;  no  more  questions  to-night.  But 
one  thing,  I  pray  you,  do  not  think  less  of  Vivian,  because 
he  happened  to  imagine  Bessy's  foolish  face  would  look 
well  on  canvas,  and  wished  to  retain  it  -as  a  specimen  of  his 
art ;  or  that  he  is  willing  to  gratify  a  fond  mother's  feelings, 
by  leaving  her  an  image  which  may  remind  her  of  me 
when  1  have  passed  away,  like  a  dream,  as  though  I  had 


214 


AUNT   PATTY  S    SCRAP-BAG. 


never  been.     Come,  they  will  be  angry  at  my  keeping  you 
here  so  long." 

The  brother  and  sister  went  out  hand  in  hand,  and  Ed- 
mund felt,  dearly  as  he  had  loved  Bessy  before,  the  interest 
he  now  felt  for  her  was  far  deeper  than  ever.  Vivian,  the 
artist,  the  poet,  the  lover,  became  henceforth  an  attractive 
study ;  and  the  more  he  studied,  the  less  he  wondered  at 
the  influence  he  had  acquired  over  the  ardent  and  imagina- 
tive Bessy.  When  they  returned  to  the  family  circle,  Mr. 
Selwyn  came  forward  with  Vivian,  and  again  introduced 
him  to  Edmund  as  a  young  friend  of  his,  whom  he  recog- 
nised as  having  met  in  Italy,  and  of  whose  reputation,  as 
an  American,  he  was  very  proud.  The  tone  of  confidence 
and  approbation  in  which  Mr.  Selwyn  spoke,  was  a  volume 
of  recommendation  to  Edmund,  and  his  cold  bow  was  ex- 
changed for  a  cordial  pressure  of  the  hand,  and  a  glance 
of  unrepressed  admiration.  The  evening  passed  away,  to 
use  Bessy's  favourite  expression,  like  a  fairy  dream. 
There  was  something  in  Edmund's  manners  that  had  the 
power  of  enchantment ;  and  his  eyes,  like  the  sun,  glad- 
dened all  that  they  shone  upon.  Even  Homer's  caver/i- 
like  soul  obeyed,  this  night,  the  magical  open-sesame  of  his 
smile,  and  suffered  some  of  its  hidden  diamonds  and  gems 
to  glitter  on  the  beholder.  Music  added  its  charm  to  the 
sweet  socialities  of  the  hour.  Victorine's  piano,  Edmund's 
flute,  and  Vivian's  violin  made  a  most  harmonious  concert ; 
and  the  soft,  clear  voices  of  the  sisters  chimed  in,  like  an 
angel  chorus.  Victorine  played,  as  she  did  every  thing 
else,  with  all  her  heart  and  soul :  her  fingers  flew  over  the 
keys  with  a  rapid,  lightning  touch,  wild  and  thrilling,  or 
lingered,  with  a  passionate  depth  of  tone,  that  made  the 
heart  ache  and  sigh,  from  a  consciousness  of  its  own  capa- 
bilities of  love  and  sorrow.  She  was  usually  pale ;  but, 
when  she  played  or  sang,  her  cheeks  crimsoned,  and  her 
lips  glowed,  as  if  a  fire  were  kindled,  and  flaming  within. 
Homer  stood  behind  her  chair,  gazing  upon  her  image  re- 
flected in  the  mirror.  The  harp  of  the  shepherd  minstrel 
had  no  more  power  over  the  evil  spirit  that  possessed  the 
first  king  of  Israel,  than  the  music  of  Victorine  on  Homer. 
If  life  were  made  of  music,  and  Victorine  was  the  minstrel, 
Homer  would  have  been  the  most  amiable  of  human  beings. 
Edmund,  whose  light  breath  warbled  through  the  flute, 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  215 

making  most  ravishing  strains,  contemplated  the  other 
musicians  with  unconscious  interest ;  Homer  and  Victorine 
must  now  be  inseparably  connected  in  his  thoughts ;  she 
must  be  to  him  nothing  more  than  a  sister,  as  she  had  been 
in  his  more  boyish  years.  He  caught  himself  indulging 
in  a  transient  feeling  of  envy,  that  Homer  had  inspired 
love  in  this  fascinating  and  impassioned  being, — leaving 
nothing  but  cold,  calm  friendship  for  him.  Then  he  re- 
joiced that  the  fraternal  jealousy  which  had  so  much 
embittered  their  life,  would  probably  yield  to  the  passion 
whose  vassal  he  now  was.  He  remembered  the  airy  castles 
Bessy  had  built  on  the  evening  of  his  departure, — the 
Grecian  temple,  the  statutes  and  pictures, — where  were 
they  now  ?  All  vanished,  and  an  altar  fed  with  burning 
incense  risen  in  its  place.  And  Homer's  baronial  castle, 
where  Emma  was  to  preside,  with  its  raised  drawbridge 
and  deep  moat  ? — it  was  now  transformed  to  a  moon-light 
bower,  where  the  aroma  of  flowers  and  the  breath  of  music 
mingled  together,  and  intoxicated  the  soul  with  love.  He 
recollected  Frank's  prediction  with  regard  to  himself :  that 
could  never  be, — Laura  was  too  artificial  and  vain  ;  she 
could  no  more  fill  the  capacities  his  heart  had  for  loving, 
than  a  shallow  rill  could  fill  the  ocean's  bed : — he  never 
should  meet  one  who  could.  He  would  never  marry,  but 
give  his  talents  to  the  world,  his  affections  to  his  mother 
and  Emma,  who  would  never  marry,  likewise,  but  be  the 
sweetest  and  best  old  maid  that  ever  lived ;  and  the  young 
Estelle  should  be  the  darling  of  both. 

While  Edmund  thus  builds  up  new  castles  on  the  ruins 
of  the  old,  let  us  exercise  our  fair)'  privilege  of  reading  the 
thoughts  of  others,  and  see  what  Mr.  Selwyn  is  thinking 
of,  while  he  keeps  time  with  his  foot,  to  the  changing  music. 
He,  too,  remembered  Bessy's  and  Frank's  gay  prophecies, 
and  thought  how  seldom  the  dreams  of  youth  were  realized. 
"  This  young  artist,"  mused  he,  "  is  poor,  but  his  genius 
will  one  day  enrich  him.  If  he  loves  Bessy,  and  is  worthy 
of  her,  the  want  of  wealth  shall  be  no  drawback  to  his 
success :  I  will  help  him  on,  but  not  make  him  too  rich, 
lest  the  world  lose  the  wonders  of  his  art,  and  he  the  bless- 
ings of  industry.  The  proud,  reserved  Homer !  how  he 
hangs  over  that  dark-eyed  French  girl,  as  if  he  would  ex- 
clude her  from  the  gaze  of  all.  There  is  a  web  of  misery 


216  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

weaving  between  them.  I  hope  she  may  not  love  him  too 
well,  for  he  is  incapable  of  domestic  happiness.  Good 
heavens  !  what  a  glance  he  just  cast  on  Edmund,  because 
he  chanced  to  be  looking  at  Victorine.  I  foresee  trouble  on 
every  side,  though  every  thing  looks  so  bright  and  fair  now 
I  must  take  Edmund  away  with  me  again :  he  is  destined 
for  a  lofty  sphere ;  my  wealth,  my  influence,  my  best  affec- 
tions are  his ;  he  shall  perpetuate  his  father's  name,  not 
only  untarnished,  but  brightened  in  fame.  Noble,  excellent 
boy  !  I  wish  I  had  a  daughter  to  bestow  upon  him,  that  he 
might  indeed  be  my  own  son." 

When  the  family  separated  for  the  night,  Edmund 
lingered  behind,  that  he  might  be  a  few  moments  alone 
with  his  brother.  He  longed  for  unreserved  confidence, 
for  an  assurance  that  mutual  trust  and  affection  should 
henceforth  exist  between  them.  "Let  me  wish  thee  joy, 
brother,"  said  he,  pressing  both  hands  in  his  ;  "  you  hav« 
won  the  first  collegiate  honours  ;  you  have  adopted  the  pro- 
fession of  our  honoured  father ;  you  love,  and  where  you 
love  are  loved  again.  Homer,  you  must  be  happy  now." 

"  No,  I  never  shall  be  happy  ;  I  deserve  not  to  be  so ;  I 
distrust  myself  and  every  human  being  ;  I  cannot  help  it. 
I've  struggled  with  my  nature,  ever  since  I  was  a  mere 
boy,  struggled  like  a  giant,  but  it  is  all  in  vain.  Love  with 
me  is  a  madness,  and  makes  my  misery,  not  my  happiness. 
Edmund,  this  shall  be  an  honest  moment;  I  will  tell  you 
all  that  is  passing  within  me,  and  then  you  shall  hate  me, 
as  you  ought.  Even  this  night,  in  the  midst  of  the  joy  and 
rapture  of  welcome,  which,  I  declare  to  you,  I  have  snared 
most  intensely,  the  dread  that  Victorine  would  love  you 
better  than  myself  has  come  over  me,  making  '  the  sweat- 
drops  of  agony  moisten  my  brow.'  " 

"  What  can  I  do  to  prove,  that  I  could  not  be  a  brother's 
rival  ?  Homer,  Victorine  loves  you ;  and  once  loved,  you 
must  be  loved  for  ever.  I  could  not  if  I  would  be  your 
rival;  but  rather  than  inflict  upon  you,  even  imaginary 
suffering,  I  would  return  to-morrow  to  the  shores  of  Europe, 
and  become  an  alien  from  my  country  and  home." 

"  What !  and  make  my  mother  and  sisters  curse  me  ? 
No !  I  was  not  born  for  society,  and  were  I  to  go  to  some 
desert  island  and  live  like  Robinson  Crusoe,  away  from  all 
mankind,  I  should  only  fulfil  my  destiny.  The  conscious- 


j»UNT   PATTYS   SCRAP-BAG. 


217 


ness  that  I  cast  a  gloom  over  all  around  me,  makes  me 
wretched,  and  yet  I  cannot  change  the  nature  which  makes 
me  gloomy,  distrustful,  jealous  and  misanthropic.  Bear 
with  me,  if  you  can,  Edmund,  and  pity  me ;  for  when  I 
make  others  most  unhappy,  I  am  myself  most  miserable. 
You  were  born  with  a  soul  of  sunshine,  and  you  cannot 
imagine  nor  dream  of  that  inward  strife  and  storm,  which 
made  me  a  sullen  man,  when  a  mere  boy,  and  will  change 
my  young  manhood  into  premature  old  age." 

"  Have  you  ever  sought  strength  of  God,  Homer  ?  You 
say  I  cannot  dream  of  inward  strife  and  storm ;  but  I  have 
passions,  strong  passions  ;  and  if  I  did  not  pray  for  strength 
to  resist  their  power,  I  might  soon  be  their  slave.  I  be- 
lieve in  God,  and  revere  his  commandments ;  if  I  break 
them,  I  must  incur  the  penalty  of  their  violation.  Do  you 
believe  me,  when  I  say  this  ?" 

"  Believe  you,  Edmund  !" 

"  Then  hear  me,  Homer  !  while  in  the  name  of  that 
God,  I  swear,  with  all  the  solemnity  of  an  oath,  that  I  will 
never  willingly  rival  you  in  fame,  fortune,  or  love ;  I  have 
no  other  security  under  heaven  to  give.  Now  let  us  be 
brothers  indeed, — brothers  in  heart,  as  well  as  name.  Let 
us  be  true  to  the  memory  of  our  father  and  the  virtues  of 
our  mother,  and  the  only  rivalships  between  us  be  in  filial 
love  and  devotion." 

Edmund  stretched  out  his  hand,  but  Homer  hastily  re- 
jected it, — and  throwing  his  arms  round  his  brother's  neck, 
leaned  his  head  on  his  shoulder  and  wept.  What  ardent 
resolutions  did  he  make  for  the  future  !  What  self-renunci- 
ations !  What  promises  of  amendment !  What  confessions 
of  wrong,  and  supplications  for  forgiveness  !  But  who  can 
say  to  the  waves  of  human  passion,  "  Thus  far  shall  thou 
go,  and  no  further,  and  here  shall  thy  proud  waves  be 
stayed?"  Who  shall  say,  when  the  tempest  rises,  "Peace, 
be  still ;"  who,  but  the  Spirit  of  God  ! 


218  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

EDMUND'S  return  was  a  signal  for  festive  meetings  in  the 
neighbourhood  and  town.  Mrs.  Worth's  family  was  so 
much  beloved,  that  every  event,  whether  of  joy  or  sorrow, 
that  occurred  in  it,  excited  the  sympathy  of  all  who  knew  it. 

It  was  that  joyous  season,  when  every  thing  animate  and 
inanimate  expands  and  glows,  under  a  bright  and  genial  sky ; 
when  the  gardens  and  wildwoods  are  rich  in  floral  splendour; 
the  water  rolls  blue  in  the  sunshine,  and  the  meadows  and 
plains  wear  that  magnificent  depth  of  colour,  which  is  seen 
only  in  northern  latitudes.  It  was  a  season  for  youthful 
parties,  gay  gatherings  at  home  and  abroad  ;  the  morning 
ride,  the  evening  walk,  or  the  sail  in  the  pleasure-boat  un- 
der the  moonlight  or  stars.  Frank  and  Laura  Wharton 
came  to  welcome  home  the  friend  of  their  childhood,  and  to 
add  to  the  gayety  and  variety  of  the  scene.  Frank  had  said, 
two  years  before,  that  Laura  was  made  for  something  better 
or  worse  than  a  fine  lady.  Trifling  circumstances  some- 
times speak  volumes. 

"Oh!  what  a  beautiful  picture  !"  exclaimed  she,  when 
Bessy  carried  her  into  the  studio,  where  Vivian  still  lingered 
over  the  portrait  he  loved,  adding  here  and  there  an  almost 
imperceptible  touch  ;  "it  looks  like  an  angel,  but  not  like 
you,  Bessy." 

"  Not  like  her !"  repeated  Vivian. 

"  No  !  very  slightly,"  replied  Laura,  making  a  telescope 
with  her  hand,  and  taking  a  long  look  ;  "  I  should  know  it 
by  the  hair,  and  by  its  being  here,  but  it 's  so  much  flattered, 
it 's  so  exquisitely  beautiful !" 

"  It  is  impossible  that  it  should  be  flattered  !"  said  Vivian, 
warmly.  "  It  is  impossible  even  to  do  justice  to  the  ori- 
ginal." 

"  Unless  to  mortal  it  were  given, 
To  dip  his  brush  in  dyes  of  heaven," 

Added  Frank,  who  entered  at  this  moment.  "  I  agree  with 
you,  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  flatter  Bessy." 

"Oh  yes  !  I  knew  you  would  say  so,  Frank,"  cried  Lau- 
ra, with  an  intelligent  smile.  "  You,  who  have  been  Bessy's 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  219 

professed  and  favoured  admirer  so  long.  But  friendship, 
you  know,  is  impartial ;  what  is  blind,  I  will  not  say." 

Vivian  coloured  high,  and  cast  a  piercing  glance  at"  Frank. 

"  A  beautiful  picture  must  always  be  more  beautiful  than  the 
original,"  said  Bessy.  "  There  is  such  a  softness,  and  smooth- 
ness in  the  colours,  such  perfect  repose  of  features,  such  in- 
describable sweetness  and  calmness  of  expression.  Painting 
is  the  dream  of  life — all  the  harshness  of  reality  is  lost  in 
the  brighter,  mellower,  tints  of  imagination." 

"  You  still  love  dreams,  Bessy,"  said  Frank;  "  you  never 
utter  a  long  sentence,  without  bringing  in  a  dream.  Well, 
I  am  glad  of  it,  for  I  am  just  beginning  to  find  out  what 
sweet  things  dreams  are." 

There  was  something  in  his  tone  and  manner  that  called 
a  blush  to  Bessy's  cheek,  and  a  frown  to  Vivian's  brow.  It 
was  the  first  time  the  idea  of  the  gay  Frank  as  a  lover  had 
entered  the  bosom  of  Bessy.  It  was  the  first  time  the  dread 
of  a  rival  seriously  disturbed  the  peace  of  Vivian.  Laura 
had  consciously  or  unconsciously  sent  a  dart  that  continue! 
to  rankle,  when  the  painter  was  left  alone  in  his  studio,  and 
his  pencil  hung  idly  in  his  hands.  In  this  attitude  Laura 
found  him,  when,  after  having  seen  Frank  and  Bessy  seated 
at  a  game  of  chess,  she  returned  in  search  of  her  handker- 
chief, which  she  was  sure  she  had  left  on  the  easel. 

"  Are  you,  too,  dreaming,  Mr.  Vivian  ?"  asked  she,  gayly. 
"There  must  be  something  infectious  in  the  atmosphere, 
or  something  irresistible  in  Bessy's  example.  Every  one 
dreams  but  me." 

"  I  have  been  in  a  dream,  I  acknowledge,"  said  Vivian, 
rising ;  "and  I  ought  to  thank  you  for  awakening  me." 

"  I  !"  repeated  Laura,  in  a  tone  of  surprise — "  I  do  not 
understand  you.  I  spoke  sportively,  but  you  give  me  so 
serious  an  answer,  you  have  excited  my  curiosity." 

"  Pardon  me,  Miss  Wharton,  but  you  made  an  allusion  to 
your  brother,  which  was  exquisitely  painful.  Will  you 
explain  it  ?  Is  he,  indeed,  the  favoured  lover  of  the  original 
of  that  picture  ?" 

Vivian  spoke  in  a  hurried,  excited  tone.  He  became  very 
pale,  and  cast  down  his  eyes  like  a  man  who  does  not  wish 
to  see  the  full  extent  of  his  danger.  Strange  thoughts  took 
possession  of  Laura.  She  had  depreciated  Bessy's  beauty, 
because  she  began  to  envy  its  power.  She  had  thrown  out 


220  .  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

a  random  remark  about  Frank,  because  she  thought  Vivian 
would  admire  her  less,  if  he  believed  her  affections  were 
engaged.  She  was  not  prepared  to  utter  a  deliberate  false- 
hood, though  she  had  not  hesitated  to  give  the  most  erro- 
neous impressions. 

"  Ask  Bessy,"  said  she,  evasively,  "  she  can  explain  every 
thing  better  than  I  can."  Then  fearing  he  might  follow  her 
advice,  and  the  benefit  of  this  misunderstanding  be  lost  to 
herself,  she  added,  "1  did  not  imagine  I  was  revealing  any 
secret.  I  thought  every  one  knew  that  they  had  loved 
each  other  from  childhood." 

"  Then  it  was  an  early  attachment,"  said  Vivian,  very 
calmly. 

"Oh  !  yes — but  it  was  never  spoken  of  seriously,  till  just 
before  Edmund's  departure,  when  it  was  all  arranged  be- 
tween them."  "  I  have  not  said  what  is  false,"  added  she 
to  herself,  "for  Frank  did  appropriate  her  to  .himself,  and 
sfce  never  said  a  word  of  disapproval.  I  am  sure  that  is 
equal  to  an  engagement." 

"  I  am  sorry  I  said  any  thing  about  it,"  continued  she, 
"  since  it  seems  to  give  you  so  much  pain.  I  beg  you  not 
to  repeat  what  I  have  said  to  Bessy,  for  she  would  never 
forgive  me,  and  we  have  always  been  the  most  intimate 
friends — never  had  a  quarrel  in  our  lives." 

"  I  thank  you,"  replied  he,  coldly,  "  I  will  not  commit  you 
in  any  respect.  I  shall  not  remain  here  long  to  disturb  the 
happiness  of  any  one." 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  don't  let  what  I  have  said  drive  you 
away.  What  will  they  think  of  it  ?  How  strange  it  will 
look  !  Pray,  Mr.  Vivian,  don't  be  so  rash,  so  precipitate." 

"  I  am  not  rash,  Miss  Wharton.  Don't  you  see  how  very 
calm  I  am.  Be  assured,  I  will  never  make  so  poor  a  return 
for  your  kindness  as  to  betray  your  confidence." 

He  began  to  gather  up  his  brushes  and  pencils ;  and 
Laura  felt  that  her  presence  was  undesirable.  She  stole 
out  of  the  room,  and  entered  the  one  where  Bessy  sat,  im- 
pelled by  an  undefinable  dread  of  Vivian's  seeking  an  im- 
mediate explanation.  The  sight  of  Bessy's  sweet,  uncon- 
scious face,  leaning  over  the  chess-board,  gave  her  a  pang 
of  remorse.  She  seemed  absorbed  in  her  game.  Her  head 
rested  on  her  right  hand,  her  left  held  back  the  ringlets  from 
her  brow. 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  221 

" How  lovely  she  looks  !"  thought  Laura ;  "I  am  sure 
Frank  loves  her,  whether  she  love  him  or  not ;  and  1  have 
only  done  her  a  kindness,  if  I  have  saved  her  from  having 
her  affections  entangled  by  a  poor  painter." 

She  soon  saw  the  figure  of  Vivian  standing  against  one 
of  the  pillars  of  the  piazza,  and  she  could  not  bear  the  sight. 
She  arose  to  find  Emma,  thinking  she  could  look  upon  her 
with  an  untroubled  conscience. 

Bessy,  absorbed  in  the  interest  of  the  game,  and  with  her 
face  inclined  from  the  window,  was  not  aware  of  the  vicinity 
of  Vivian,  though  her  thoughts  had  been  wandering  towards 
him  more  frequently  than  she  would  be  willing  to  acknow- 
ledge. "I  wish  I  knew  what  to  do  with  this  bishop,"  said 
she,  thoughtfully,  "  it  troubles  me." 

"  I  could  tell  you  a  very  good  use  to  make  of  it,"  said 
Frank,  "  if  you  would  let  me." 

"  Nay,  Frank,  I  am  not  in  a  jesting  mood.  I'm  in  a  state 
of  serious  perplexity." 

"  And  so  am  I.  This  bishop  does  not  trouble  you  half 
so  much,  as  a  certain  gentleman  troubles  me — this  Vivian." 

"  How  foolish  !"  exclaimed  Bessy,  hastily.  "  If  you  do 
not  attend  to  your  game,  I  shall  check-mate  you,  though 
you  have  so  much  the  advantage." 

"  But,  seriously,  Bessy,  I  want  to  know  something  more 
about  this  Vivian." 

"  This  Vivian,  as  you  are  pleased  to  call  him,  sir,  is  ready 
to  answer  for  himself,"  said  a  haughty  voice,  and  Vivian 
suddenly  entered  the  room.  Bessy  started  up  in  terror  at 
this  sudden  apparition,  and  Frank  also  rose,  though  he  gave 
back  the  haughty  glance  of  Vivian,  with  one  of  equal  scorn. 

"  What  do  you  wish  to  know  of  me,  sir,"  repeated  he, — 
"  I  can  save  this  lady  the  trouble  of  replying." 

"This  lady  !"  cried  Bessy.  "  Oh,  Vivian,  do  not  speak 
so  angrily.  If  you  knew  Frank  as  well  as  I  do,  you  would 
not  regard  it.  He  always  speaks  in  that  familiar  way.  If 
he  were  speaking  of  me  to  you,  he  would  call  me,  this 
Bessy." 

"  I  said  I  wanted  to  know  you  better,  sir,"  exclaimed 
Frank,  "and  I  repeat  what  I  said.  Do  you  understand 
me?" 

"You  never  will  know  me  better,  unless  you  seek  me  un- 
der another  roof  than  this.  I  will  never  make  this  house  a 


222 


AUNT   PATTY  S  SCRAP -BAG. 


scene  of  contention.  But  if  we  meet  again,  sir,  beware  of 
the  language  you  use." 

"  Oh,  Frank !  what  have  you  done  ?"  cried  Bessy,  as 
Vivian,  with  hasty  step,  passed  over  the  threshold,  crossed 
the  piazza,  and  was  gone." 

"  Done  !  nothing !  If  I  had  done  what  I  ought,  I  should 
have  knocked  him  flat  on  the  floor.  What  business  had  he 
to  be  listening  ;  I  am  sorry  I  did  not  chastise  him  for  his  in- 
solence. But,  Bessy,  you  are  weeping.  I  did  not  mean  to 
wound  your  feelings.  I  would  not  do  it  for  any  earthly 
consideration.  Don't  weep  any  more, — don't  Bessy, — I 
cannot  bear  to  see  you  weep." 

Bessy  sat,  her  face  covered  with  her  hands,  leaning  over 
the  back  of  a  chair.  Every  now  and  then  the  sound  of  a 
suppressed  sob  echoed  dolefully  through  Frank's  heart ; 
he  longed  to  comfort  her ;  to  take  her  in  his  arms  ;  to  wipe 
away  her  tears  and  tell  her  how  beautiful,  and  amiable,  and 
angelic  he  thought  her.  But  he  did  not  even  dare  to  take 
a  seat  near  her  at  this  moment,  such  a  sudden  transition 
was  wrought  in  his  feelings.  He  felt  as  if  he  never  more 
would  venture  to  approach  Bessy  with  familiarity,;  that 
instead  of  the  free,  gay  rallies,  reckless  of  offence,  he  was 
become  the  modest  and  respectful  young  man.  But  along 
with  this  gentleness  and  respect  for  Bessy,  there  was  a 
burning  desire  to  humble  and  exile  that  Vivian,  as  he  could 
not  for  his  life  help  calling  him.  What  business  had  he 
to  put  on  such  aristocratic  airs,  and  presume  to  monopolize 
Bessy,  to  the  exclusion  of  her  best  and  earliest  friends  ;  he, 
a  mere  stranger,  whom,  six  weeks  ago,  nobody  knew,  and 
for  whom  six  weeks  hence,  nobody  would  care  ? 

"Won't  you  speak  to  me,  Bessy?"  said  he,  at  length. 
"I'll  call  Vivian  back  if  you  w;sh  it — though  I'll  be  sure 
to  say  it's  for  your  sake,  not  mine." 

"No,  no,  no!"  answered  she,  without  raising  her  head; 
"  say  nothing  to  him,  nor  to  any  one  else.  I  do  not  wish 
to  see  him.  But  we  have  all  been  so  happy  together ; 
even  Homer  has  been  joyous  at  times ;  and  now  it  has  all 
passed  away  like  a  dream." 

"  We  shall  be  happier  than  ever,"  cried  Frank,  em- 
boldened by  the  sound  of  her  voice;  "  I'm  sure  I  have  a 
right  to  think  that  you  should  care  more  for  me,  your  life- 
long friend,  than  the  acquaintance  of  a  few  passing  weeks. 


AUNT  PATTY'S   SCRAP-BAG. 


223 


I'm  sure  that — I  mean  Vivian,  cannot  think  half  so  much 
of  you  as  I  do,  who  have  known  and  loved  you  so  Jong." 

"  Yes !  we've  always  been  like  a  brother  and  sister, 
Frank." 

"  I  don't  mean  this  brother  and  sister  sort  of  love,  Bessy ; 
that  passed  very  well  two  or  three  years  ago,  but  I've  found 
out,  there's  a  great  deal  stronger  love  than  what  I  feel  for 
Laura." 

"  Don't  speak  of  it  now,  Frank ;  my  head  aches  and 
throbs,  and  I  know  not  what  I  am  saying."  She  rose  and 
walked  to  the  door,  still  veiling  as  much  as  possible  her 
flushed  and  tearful  face.  Pausing  a  moment  on  the  threshold, 
she  said,  "  Promise  me,  Frank,  that  there  shall  be  no  more 
angry  words  or  looks.  If  they  are  given  to  you,  return  them 
not ;  speak  not  of  it  to  Edmund,  and  forget  it  yourself." 

"  I  would  do  any  thing  in  the  world  for  your  sake,  Bessy, 
but  I  cannot  promise,  if  any  one  gives  a  blazing  glance,  to 
look  pleased  and  smile ;  I  will  try,  however,  to  swallow  my 
anger." 

Frank  checked  himself,  for  he  found  he  was  talk- 
ing to  empty  walls ;  Bessy  was  gone  and  no  trace  left  of 
her,  but  her  handkerchief  which  lay  upon  the  floor,  by 
the  chair  over  which  she  had  leaned  ;  he  took  it  up,  it  was 
moistened  by  her  tears.  His  heart  felt  strangely  moved  by 
the  impression  of  Bessy's  tears  ;  and  by  the  knowledge  that, 
however  unintentionally,  he  had  been  the  cause.  Was  it  love 
for  Vivian  that  made  her  weep  ?  No !  he  would  not  admit 
thai  truth  ;  she  was  far  more  distant  and  reserved  to  Vivian 
than  to  himself;  and  he  recollected  that  several  times  when, 
on  entering  the  room,  they  had  both  offered  her  a  chair, 
she  had  taken  his  in  preference  to  Vivian's.  This  and 
several  similar  recollections  warmed  and  softened  Frank's 
usually  gay  heart.  He  grew  sentimental  over  this  hand- 
kerchief moistened  by  the  tears  of  youth  and  beauty.  He 
folded  it  carefully,  and  placing  it  in  his  bosom,  secretly 
vowed  to  devote  himself  henceforth  valiantly  and  constantly 
to  this  fairest,  sweetest,  best  and  loveliest  of  all  created 
beings.  Frank  certainly  was  in  love  ;  he  had  placed  a 
maiden's  handkerchief  next  his  heart,  and  his  thoughts  ran 
into  superlatives.  He  had  no  opportunity  of  proving  his 
knight-errantry  in  the  course  of  the  day.  Vivian  did  not 
appear,  and  Bessy  remained  in  her  own  room,  on  the  plea 


224 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 


of  a  sick-headache,  that  invariable  excuse  for  a  sick  and 
aching  heart.  In  the  evening,  as  Estelle  sat  in  the  window 
of  Aunt  Patty's  chamber,  sewing  on  the  immortal  counter 
pane,  she  saw  the  figure  of  Vivian  walking  slowly  up  and 
down  the  garden  walks,  and  sometimes  he  stopped  and 
stood  still  a  long  time,  and  looked  down  upon  the  ground. 
The  child  wondered  at  his  protracted  absence,  and  his  now 
lonely  walk ;  a  flight  of  steps  ran  from  Aunt  Patty's  cham- 
ber into  the  garden ;  and  down  those  steps  Estelle  flew,  and 
in  a  moment  was  at  Vivian's  side. 

"  Why  don't  you  come  in,"  said  she,  in  a  sweet,  earnest 
tone,  which  it  would  have  been  hard  to  resist.  "You 
have  been  gone  so  long,  and  you  walk  about  so  lonely." 

"  I'm  going  away,  Estelle,  and  I  don't  like  to  bid  good- 
Dy  to  friends  ;  you  must  do  it  for  me." 

"  Going  away  !"  repeated  Estelle,  sorrowfully.  "  Oh  ! 
Mr.  Vivian,  don't  say  so — you  haven't  painted  Aunt  Patty's 
likeness  and  mine ;  and  Aunt  Patty  may  not  live  till  you 
come  back  again." 

"  I  shall  never  come  back  again,"  cried  Vivian,  in  an 
agitated  voice,  putting  his  arms  round  Estelle  and  kissing 
her  cheek  ;  "  but  I  never  shall  forget  you." 

"  Come  up  in  Aunt  Patty's  room,  and  tell  her  the 
reason,"  said  the  child,  pulling  Vivian  by  the  hand,  all  the 
time  she  ran  up  the  steps.  "  Come  and  see  Aunt  Patty, 
for  I  know  it  isn't  right  to  go  away  so." 

Vivian  found  himself  in  Aunt  Patty's  presence,  without 
any  volition  of  his  own  ;  who  smiled,  nodded,  and  pointed 
to  a  chair,  while  Estelle  still  held  his  hand  as  if  she  feared 
he  would  vanish  from  her  sight.  "  See,  what  a  beautiful 
counterpane  Estelle  is  making  for  me,"  exclaimed  Aunt 
Patty,  whose  ruling  passion  became  more  and  more  ab- 
sorbing. "  I  was  afraid  the  pieces  would  get  lost  after  a 
while,  and  thought  I  would  have  them  put  all  together ; 
I  mean  to  give  it  to  my  niece  that's  married  first — Emma  or 
Bessy.  I  expect  it  Avill  be  Bessy,  for  Emma  is  weakly,  as 
I  used  to  be,  and  serious.  I  always  thought  young  Mr. 
Frank  and  Bessy  would  make  a  match ;  they  used  to  play 
together  when  they  were  children.  Here's  a  piece  of 
Bessy's  frock,  that  she  wore  the  first  time  you  ever  came 
here.  It's  blue,  shaded  in  a  kind  of  shell  work ;  you  know 
blue  becomes  Bessy,  she's  so  fair.  Blue  always  becomes 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  225 

a  fair  complexion;  I  never  looked  well  in  blue,  because  I 
was  a  brunette — red  suited  my  complexion  best.  But  I 
needn't  talk  about  complexions  now;  I'm  too  old — all 
colours  are  alike  to  me." 

Aunt  Patty  had  mounted  her  hobby,  and  she  went  on, 
telling  the  histories  of  myriad  shreds,  red,  pink,  and  brown ; 
but  Vivian  heard  her  not.  He  gazed  on  the  sample  of 
shaded  blue,  as  if  he  had  not  the  power  to  withdraw  his 
eyes. 

"  May  I  keep  this,  Aunt  Patty  ?"  said  he,  at  length ; 
"it  will  remind  me  of  you,  when  I  am  gone." 

"  Yes,  keep  it,"  replied  she,  "  if  you  like ;  you've 
crumpled  and  twisted  it  so,  it  would'nt  do  to  put  in  the 
quilt,  and  I  have  another  piece  like  it.  But  what  makes 
you  look  so  sad,  and  talk  about  being  gone  ?  Has  any  thing 
happened  ?  Have  you  had  any  bad  news  from  home  ?" 

Vivian  turned  away  his  face  and  appeared  intently  oc- 
cupied with  Estelle's  work.  "Oh!  Aunt  Patty,"  cried 
Estelle,  beseechingly ;  "  he's  really  going  away, tod  I  shall 
not  have  your  picture  after  all — and  what  shall  we  all  do 
without  him  ?  and  what  will  sister  Bessy  say,"  continued 
she,  turning  to  Vivian,  "  who  loves  to  talk  to  you  so  much?" 

"  Bessy  will  not  care  when  I  am  gone,"  replied  he  in  a 
softer  tone.  "  There  are  others  here  whom  she  loves  better 
than  me." 

"Yes,  mother  and  Edmund — but  what  of  that?  She 
can  love  ever  so  many  at  a  time." 

Estelle  could  not  comprehend  the  dark  expressions  of 
Vivian's  face,  as  she  uttered  this  consoling  remark;  she 
began  to  be  afraid  of  him.  He  spoke  so  strange,  and 
looked  so  wild  and  pale. 

"Don't  plague  him  about  my  picture,  child,"  said  Aunt 
Patty  ;  "  it  isn't  worth  thinking  about.  I  was  willing  to 
have  it  taken  to  please  the  children,  so  they  might  remem- 
ber how  poor  old  Patty  looked  when  she's  dead  and  gone. 
I  intended  to  be  painted  in  my  thunder  and  lightning  calico, 
as  Edmund  calls  it ;  here  is  a  piece  of  it ;  but  it's  no  matter, 
it  wouldn't  have  been  fit  to  put  up,  by  the  side  of  Bessy's, 
any  way.  Bless  her  heart,  here  she  comes,  looking  as 
pale  as  a  sheet.  No,  she's  as  fresh  as  a  rose  now." 

Bessy  opened  the  door,  unconscious  of  the  guest  that 
honoured  Aunt  Patty's  quiet  apartment.  She  would  have 
15 


226 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAO. 


retreated,  but  Estelle  ran  to  her,  and  told  her  almost  breath- 
lessly, that  Vivian  was  going  away,  without  bidding  any 
one  good-by :  and  that  he  was  never  coming  back  again  ; 
and  that  he  did'nt  believe  she  cared  whether  he  went  or  not. 

"Am  I  so  lightly  given  up,  then  ?"  thought  Bessy,  "  that 
for  a  single  offence  from  Frank,  he  is  willing  to  go,  without 
a  word  of  explanation,  or  even  one  kind  good-by  ?  Is  this 
the  end  of  all  his  fond,  flattering  words  ?  Is  this  the  dark 
wakening  of  my  life's  young  dream  ?" 

That  pride,  which  is  ever  ready  to  gird  and  sustain  the 
female  heart,  in  the  hour  of  trial  and  desertion,  forbade  Bessy 
from  manifesting  any  weakness,  or  regret,  before  one  who 
could  trifle  so  wantonly  with  her  feelings. 

"Beg  him  to  stay,  Bessy,"  whispered  Estelle. 

"  If  Vivian  wishes  to  go,  why  should  we  wish  him  to  re- 
main ?"  asked  Bessy,  in  a  cold,  constrained  voice. 

"When  I  know  that  my  presence  is 'intrusive,"  cried 
Vivian,  in  the  same  tone,  "  it  is  natural  that  I  should  wish  to 
depart." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Aunt  Patty  took  off  her  spec- 
tacles, wiped  them  over  and  over  again,  put  them  on,  and 
looked  at  Vivian  and  Bessy,  as  if  she  thought  she  had  made 
a  mistake  in  their  identity.  In  the  simplicity  of  a  lonely 
life,  which  the  sunbeams  and  clouds  of  love  never  passed 
over — the  roses  and  thorns  of  love  never  strewed — the  hush 
and  the  tempest  of  love  never  agitated ;  she  was  unskilled 
in  that  lore,  which  could  have  enabled  her  to  interpret  the 
mysterious  change  in  her  young  friends. 

"  Well,"  said  she — for  she  had  a  great  horror  of  long 
pauses,  and  was  always  the  first  to  break  them — "  if  you 
must  go,  may  God  bless  you,  and  take  you  in  his  holy  keep- 
ing. You  have  a  great  talent  intrusted  to  you.  It  isn't 
everybody  that  can  copy  the  most  marvellous  works  of  God, 
as  you  can.  It's  like  making  the  deaf  hear,  the  dumb  speak, 
and  bringing  the  dead  to  life.  It's  like  taking  the  power  of 
the  Almighty  into  your  own  hands,  and  making  a  new 
creation.  Then  there  is  such  a  comfort  in  it,  when  friends 
are  dead  and  gone.  If  the  Lord  should  please  to  take  away 
Bessy,  we  would  never  feel  as  if  we  had  really  lost  her,  as 
long  as  we  had  that  sweet,  beautiful  picture  of  yours  to  look 
upon." 

Aunt  Patty,  in  her  eloquence,  had  touched  a  tender  chord. 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  227 

The  idea  that  Bessy  might  die,  and  all  that  remained  of  her, 
be  that  cold,  still,  bright  shadow,  the  mockery  of  life,  was 
more  than  Vivian  could  bear.  He  turned  and  looked  fixedly 
on  her.  She  sat  with  her  head  resting  on  her  hand ;  her 
eyes  bent  upon  the  floor.  She  looked  as  if  she  had  sud- 
denly frozen  in  that  attitude,  so  cold,  still,  and  white  she 
looked. 

"  Are  you  ill,  Bessy  ?"  cried  he  suddenly,  approaching 
her. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  put  out  her  hand,  with  a  depre- 
cating motion.  There  was  a  quick  revulsion  in  his  feelings. 

"  She  repels  me  from  her,"  thought  he,  "even at  this 
moment.  She  has  loved  him  from  childhood.  She  is  be- 
trothed to  him,  yet  she  smiled  and  listened  to  my  vows.  So 
young,  so  fair,  yet  so  false  !  She  has  broken  my  heart — 
blasted  my  fame,  and  withered  my  ambition.  I  never  shall 
touch  pencil,  brush,  or  canvas  more.  All  my  glorious  vi- 
sions are  fled.  Nothing  is  left  but  a  wide,  dreary,  blank — 
an  aimless,  joyless,  loveless  existence,  or  perchance  an  early, 
undistinguished  grave." 

As  these  thoughts  rolled  darkly  through  Vivian's  mind, 
the  few,  short  words,  "  Farewell,  Bessy,"  were  all  that 
escaped  from  his  lips.  She  was  conscious  of  a  quick,  con- 
vulsive pressure  of  the  hand,  the  sound  of  a  shutting  door, 
and  then  it  seemed  to  her,  that  there  was  a  strange  mingling 
of  light  and  sound  in  her  head  ;  a  rushing,  and  roaring,  and 
flushing,  that  made  her  giddy,  and  sick,  and  faint. 

"Don't  look  so,  Bessy,"  cried  Estelle.  "What's  the 
matter  ?  Speak  to  me,  Bessy.  Oh,  Aunt  Patty,  she  can't. 
Give  her  your  salts.  Where's  your  hartshorn  ?  Where's 
some  water  ?" 

Estelle  ran  about  the  room  for  salts,  hartshorn,  and  water, 
but  neither  could  be  found,  and  she  was  on  the  wing  in  an- 
other direction,  when  Aunt  Patty  arrested  her,  by  suggesting 
a  novel  expedient. 

"  Give  her  a  pinch  of  snuff,  Estelle,  quick.  It  will  be  as 
good  as  a  dose  of  hartshorn.  It  will  make  her  sneeze,  and 
that  will  bring  her  to  herself  again." 

Estelle,  in  her  fright,  snatched  the  snuff-box  from  Aunt 
Patty's  tremulous  hand,  and  rushed  up  to  Bessy,  who  still 
looked  so  frozen  and  white,  that  it  made  her  shudder.  But 
the  confusion  in  Bessy's  senses  had  subsided  so  far  that  she 


228  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

could  hear  distinct  sounds  ;  and  Aunt  Patty's  proposal  ex 
cited  so  much  horror  and  disgust,  that  she  drew  back  her 
head,  in  time  to  avoid  the  odious  contact.  Aunt  Patty  took 
the  real  old-fashioned,  yellow  Scotch  snuff,  and  though  it  did 
not  mar  perceptibly  the  beauty  of  her  own  face,  it  would 
have  left  a  very  disfiguring  cloud  round  Bessy's  fair  nose. 

"There,  there,  the  very  smell  has  revived  her,"  cried 
Aunt  Patty ;  "  there's  nothing  like  snuff,  after  all.  Go 
quietly  to  bed,  darling,  and  don't  get  to  thinking  and  dream- 
ing too  hard.  You've  walked  about  too  much  in  the  moon- 
shine lately,  and  I've  always  heard  it  was  bad  for  the  brains. 
They  say,  though,  that  angels  fly  about  in  the  moonlight, 
and  I've  sometimes  thought  that  I've  seen  them  sitting  un- 
der the  trees,  and  on  the  banks  of  the  water,  where  it  shines 
like  silver.  Well,  if  they  do  come  down  from  the  skies,  I 
know  they  will  watch  by  your  pillow ;  so  good-night  again, 
darling,  and,  as  old  Doctor  Watts  says,  "  Holy  angels  guard 
thy  bed." 

The  poetical  chords  in  Bessy's  soul  vibrated  in  gentle 
response  to  Aunt  Patty's  kind  good-night.  Shebeiit  her  head 
to  receive  her  parting  kiss,  and  retired  with  Estelle,  who 
watched  her  with  anxious  tenderness,  fearing  the  return  of 
that  pale,  death-like  look. 

The  sudden  departure  of  Vivian  caused  quite  a  sensation, 
when  it  was  made  known  at  the  breakfast  table.  Laura, 
who  well  knew  the  cause,  was  the  most  astonished  of  all. 
She  could  not  imagine,  she  could  not  conceive,  the  motive 
of  his  absconding  so.  Perhaps  he  had  been  detected  in 
some  disgraceful  act,  and  was  fleeing  from  the  penalty  of  the 
violated  law.  At  any  rate,  it  was  very  rude  and  ungrateful 
in  him,  to  leave  the  family  so  abruptly. 

Edmund,  though  he  thought  his  conduct  very  strange  and 
unaccountable,  warmly  defended  him  from  Laura's  sweep- 
ing charges.  He  was  willing  to  stake  his  life  on  the  purity 
of  his  moral  character.  Such  genius,  enthusiasm,  and  sen- 
sibility, never  could  be  the  accompaniments  of  meanness  and 
vice.  Edmund  reasoned  with  the  warmth  of  a  young  and 
generous  spirit,  which,  incapable  of  any  thing  low  and  de- 
grading, can  hardly  believe  in  the  existence  of  vice. 

Mr.  Selwyn  smiled  with  more  worldly  wisd  )m,  though 
he  loved  the  confidence  that  was  born  of  rectitude  and  inno- 
cence. He  was  mortified  at  Vivian's  departure  ;  for  if  it 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  229 

should  really  result  in  guilt,  it  would  prove  an  error  in  his 
judgment,  which  he  seldom  committed. 

Mrs.  Worth  and  Emma  said  but  little,  but  they  thought 
of  Bessy,  and  haa  some  sad  forebodings. 

Frank  thought  it  a  fit  of  well-founded  jealousy,  but  he 
would  not  betray  his  thoughts. 

Estelle  sat  in  silence,  looking  "unutterable  things,"  for 
she  had  promised  Bessy  not  to  mention  his  strange  visit  to 
Aunt  Patty's  room. 

What  Bessy  thought  and  felt  was  confessed  to  her  mo- 
ther the  first  time  they  were  alone.  All  the  love,  hope,  joy, 
fear  and  anguish  of  that  pure,  imaginative,  loving,  too  sus- 
ceptible heart,  was  poured  into  the  heart  of  one,  who  gave 
back  the  tenderest  sympathy,  blended  with  the  most  judi- 
cious counsels  ;  one,  in  whom  the  experience  of  riper  years 
was  softened  by  the  still  living  and  glowing  memories  of 
youth. 

"  Oh,  mother !"  cried  Bessy,  at  the  close  of  this  long,  af- 
fectionate interview,  "how  grateful  lam  for  your  kindness, 
gentleness,  and  sympathy  !  You  do  not  blame  me  for  my 
weakness  and  folly.  I  will  struggle  against  it  for  your 
sake.  And  yet  I  was  so  happy  in  his  companionship. 
After  he  came,  it  seemed  as  if  new  faculties  and  sensibili- 
ties dawned  in  my  soul,  as  stars  gleam  out  thick  and  bright 
on  the  firmament  when  the  wand  of  night  is  lifted.  Yet 
he  was  not  like  night.  He  was  too  bright,  too  glorious  for 
night.  A  thousand  times,  dear  mother,  I've  felt  as  if  I  had 
existed  before,  and  feelings  and  events  seemed  but  the  re- 
miniscences of  another  shadowy  world.  Perhaps  you  do 
not  understand  me,  but  I'm  sure  my  spirit  lived  before  it 
animated  this  dust  of  mine.  Yes,  lived,  and  glowed,  and 
loved.  And  when  Vivian  came,  my  heart  sprang  to  meet 
him,  as  one  known,  loved,  and  remembered  ;  the  being  of  a 
fairer  clime  than  this.  Oh !  what  a  change  there  was ! 
The  skies  looked  bluer — the  sun  brighter,  the  birds  sang  a 
more  melodious  song;  even  your  smile,  my  mother,  seemed 
softer  and  sweeter  than  ever.  I  have  lived",  for  a  little  time, 
the  life  of  an  angel ;  and  now  it  is  all  over,  and  we  will  never 
speak  of  it  again.  And  I  will  try  to  smile,  and  let  no  one 
see  that  it  is  an  effort  to  do  so.  I  will  henceforth  live  nearer 
to  God." 

Bessy  looked  up  with  such  a  heavenly  expression,  that  hei 


230  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

mother  thought  she  was  too  much  assimilated  to  angels  for 
an  earthly  union.  Perhaps,  like  the  daughter  of  Jephthah, 
she  was  about  to  be  sacrificed  on  his  altar,  in  the  dew  of  her 
youth,  and  the  light  of  her  beauty — a  sweet,  fragrant  offer- 
ing, holy  and  acceptable  in  his  sight. 

"  God  bless  thee,  my  child,  and  give  thee  strength  to  keep 
thy  holy  resolution,"  said  Mrs.  Worth T  tenderly  embracing 
her ;  while  her  eyes  were  moistened  with  tears.  "  Take 
comfort  from  my  experience.  I  have  wept  over  the  loss  of 
one,  whom  I  loved  with  a  love  to  which  that  you  feel  for 
Vivian  must  be  light.  Yes  !  Bessy,  for  it  grew  stronger, 
and  deeper,  and  holier  by  time ;  yours  is  but  the  flower 
that  blooms  in  the  sunshine,  which  a  summer  gale  may 
destroy ;  mine  the  tree,  rooted  into  the  soil,  that  must  be 
rent  asunder  ere  it  withers  and  falls.  You  remember  when 
you  were  made  fatherless ;  you  remember  well  the  first  dark 
days  of  my  widowhood ;  but  you  never  knew,  none  but  my 
Maker  knew,  the  desolation,  the  agony  of  my  soul,  till  I 
learned  submission  to  His  will ;  and  could  say  that  it  was 
good  that  I  had  been  afflicted.  You  are  very  young,  my 
Bessy,  and  if  this  first  blossom  of  love  is  doomed  to  an  un- 
timely blight,  others  will  bloom,  to  sweeten  and  gladden 
your  youth.  Nor  has  the  grave  interposed  its  cold,  deep 
barrier  between  you  and  the  object  of  your  affections.  Life 
and  hope,  and  perhaps  joy  and  love,  remain  for  you.  In 
the  mean  time,-  let  us  live  nearer  to  each  other  and  to  God, 
and  if  we  cannot  find  happiness  we  shall  be  blessed  with 
content." 

From  this  time,  a  holier,  closer,  tenderer  union  than  had 
ever  before  united  them,  existed  between  Mrs.  Worth  and 
her  beautiful  child.  They  had  looked  into  each  other's 
hearts,  as  the  moon  looks  into  the  deep  silent  waters ;  re- 
flecting light,  beauty,  and  peace. 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  231 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IN  the  immediate  neighbourhood  of  Mrs.  Worth,  there 
dwelt  two  aged  women,  who  were  called,  par  excellence, 
the  good  old  ladies.  They  sustained  the  relation  of  mother 
and  daughter  to  each  other ;  the  latter  having  seen  her 
threescore,  the  former  her  fourscore  years  and  ten.  They 
belonged  to  the  nominal  poor  of  the  town,  but  when  their 
misfortune  and  infirmities  first  threw  them  on  the  public  for 
support,  they  were  so  much  distressed  at  the  idea  of  going 
to  the  almshouse,  that  a  number  of  individuals  pledged 
themselves  to  furnish  them  the  means  of  subsistence,  in  a 
small,  but  comfortable  cabin,  which  was  gratuitously  offered 
them.  Their  wants  were  but  few,  nor  would  they  want  their 
little  long ;  they  were  called,  through  universal  courtesy, 
old  Lady  Graves  and  old  Lady  Paine.  Strangers  would 
have  thought  there  were  no  other  old  ladies  in  town,  for 
they  were  always  called  the  old  ladies  ;  a  distinction  they 
obtained  as  much  by  their  piety  and  tenderness,  as  by  their 
superior  age.  The  children  of  Mrs.  Worth  had  from  earli- 
est childhood  considered  it  one  of  their  greatest  pleasures 
to  visit  this  little  cabin,  and  be  the  almoners  of  their  mother's 
bounty.  They  had  many  sweetheart  gifts  of  their  own,  too, 
to  offer,  such  as  flowers  and  fruit ;  and  many  a  delicacy 
which  they  denied  themselves,  that  they  might  earn  the 
blessing  of  the  aged.  The  old  ladies  still  called  them  their 
little  benefactresses ;  and  Edmund  was  their  dear,  good, 
darling  boy ;  though  his  head  now  towered  over  theirs. 
He  had  remembered  them  even  in  transatlantic  shores  ;  and 
brought  them  spectacles,  which  they  thought  had  rejuven- 
ated their  eyes ;  so  light-giving  and  faith-inspiring  is  be- 
nevolence. The  path  which  led  to  their  dwelling  was  a 
straight,  narrow  lane,  margined  on  each  side  with  green ; 
and  it  was  a  smooth,  beaten  track.  The  grass  was  never 
suffered  to  grow  in  the  centre,  nor  to  be  wantonly  trampled 
down  at  the  sides.  In  winter,  when  the  snow  came  drift- 
ing down,  covering  the  ground  with  one  broad,  deep  white 
crust,  some  kind  hand  always  cut  a  nice  trench  up  to  the 


232  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

old  ladies'  door.  When  the  farmers  turned  out  in  a  body 
to  carry  wood  to  their  minister,  and  the  sleds  moved  in  long 
procession  down  the  street,  leaving  a  shining  path  behind 
them,  a  load  was  always  left  quietly  in  the  old  ladies'  yard, 
and  it  was  sure  to  be  nicely  cut  and  piled,  for  their  handy 
use.  Truly  the  path  of  poverty  and  age  was  smoothed  be» 
fore  these  time-worn  pilgrims,  as  they  travelled  hand  i» 
hand  towards  the  grave,  looking  backward  with  gratitude,  and 
forward  with  faith,  to  the  green  fields  of  the  promised  land. 
These  humble  women  played  no  conspicuous  part  in  the 
drama  of  life  ;  and  it  may  perhaps  be  asked,  why  are  they 
introduced  in  this  collection  of  family  pictures  ?  Because 
they  linked  the  young,  whose  history  we  are  writing,  with 
the  past  generations, — because  that  low  cabin  was  the  scene 
of  many  of  their  purest  joys  ;  and  more  than  all,  because,  in 
drawing  pictures,  we  love  contrasts  of  light  and  shade  ;  and 
nothing  can  be  more  beautiful  than  to  see  the  glow  and 
brightness  of  youth  side  by  side  with  the  'pallor  and  dim- 
ness of  age. 

Frank  called  these  old  ladies  the  belles  of  the  town,  and 
laughed  at  Edmund  for  his  devotion  to  them ;  yet  he  had 
often  been  detected  in  stealthily  sending  large  packets  from 
the  stores,  which  came  to  them  like  fairy  gifts,  without  a 
name.  Laura  thought  it  very  ridiculous  to  make  such  a 
fuss  about  the  old  grannies,  and  wondered  how  the  grace- 
ful Edmund  arid  the  beautiful  Bessy  could  endure  such 
crones.  One  evening  Edmund  entered  the  cottage  to  avoid 
a  shower,  that  fell  just  as  he  was  passing.  The  door  was 
open  and  he  stood  a  moment  on  the  threshold  unobserved, 
to  contemplate  a  picture  exceedingly  beautiful  in  his  eyes. 
The  elder  of  the  aged  sat  in  an  arm-chair,  her  knitting  in 
her  hand,  one  needle  shining  under  the  border  of  her 
crimped  cap,  above  her  silver  hair ;  her  ball  pinned  to  her 
frock  ;  a  heart-shaped  knitting  sheath  fastened  to  her  side. 
The  mildness  and  innocence  of  second  childhood  softened  a 
countenance  no  longer  agitated  by  the  storms  of  human 
passion.  The  waters  were  all  still ;  not  even  a  ripple  dis- 
turbed the  reflection  of  life's  setting  sun,  that  dipped  his 
mellowed  beams  in  the  waves.  On  her  left,  the  venerable 
daughter  sat,  bending  over  a  little  wheel,  her  inseparable 
companion ;  whose  low,  monotonous  humming  constituted 
Jie  music  of  her  existence,  for  she  was  deaf,  and  the  usual 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  233 

tone  of  the  human  voice  did  not  penetrate  her  ear.  She 
could  hear,  however,  faintly,  the  buzzing  of  her  o\vn  little 
wheel,  and  she  said  it  sounded  like  a  distant  waterfall ;  and 
it  made  her  feel  so  peaceful,  she  loved  to  hear  it.  Now  she 
leaned  forward  and  wet  her  fingers  in  the  gourd-shell, 
that  hung  by  the  distaff;  then  she  twisted  the  shining  flax 
into  almrst  invisible  thread,  her  foot  patting  the  treadle 
board,  the  pedal  to  this  harp  of  industry.  Between  these 
two  were  seated  a  youthful  maiden,  who  looked  like  a 
bright  flower  springing  up  amid  alpine  snows ;  with  her 
pure  white  robes,  her  dark,  unbound  hair,  her  face  partially 
inclined  over  the  book  of  God,  which  lay  upon  her  knees, 
from  which  she  was  reading  to  the  two  aged  Christians. 
Victorine  had  never  appeared  so  interesting  to  the  eyes  of 
Edmund.  He  had  scarcely  looked  upon  her  lately ;  so 
fearful  was  he  of  exciting  the  jealous  madness  of  his  brother. 
But  now,  withdrawn  from  the  glance  of  that  dark  eye,  which 
watched  his  every  motion,  unseen  too  by  herself,  he  dared 
to  gaze  upon  her  and  think  that  time  had  wrought  marvel- 
lous changes,  since  she  was  the  wild,  gipsy  girl  of  the 
French  menagerie.  There  was  something  soft  and  pen- 
sive in  the  expression  of  her  usually  too  bright  and  flashing 
eye ;  and  the  holy  act  in  which  she  was  engaged  threw 
an  air  of  sanctity  and  spirituality  around  her  virgin  form. 
She  was  reading  the  Psalms  of  David,  and  their  melody 
fell  sweetly  on  his  ear  : 

"  Lord,  thou  hast  been  our  dwelling-place  in  all  gene- 
rations. 

"  Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth,  or  ever  thou 
hadst  formed  the  earth  and  the  world,  even  from  everlasting1 
to  everlasting,  thou  art  God." 

While  she  read  this  sublime  prayer  of  Moses,  which  is 
included  in  the  hosannas  of  the  sweet  singer  of  Israel,  the 
spinner  leaned  over  the  distaff",  for  the  clear  voice  of  Vic- 
torine glided  through  the  bars  that  obstructed  her  hearing, 
like  the  song  of  a  bird  through  its  grated  cage,  and  the 
octogenarian  dropped  her  knitting  in  her  lap,  and  raised 
her  glimmering  eyes  to  heaven,  murmuring  in  response  *. 
"  Few  and  evil  have  the  days  of  the  years  of  my  pilgrimage 
been."  Edmund  would  not  have  interrupted  this  beautiful 
scene,  had  all  the  waters  of  the  deluge  been  pouring  upon 
him  ;  but  when  Victorine  arose  and  laid  the  Bible  upon  the 


234 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 


little  table,  beside  the  emblematic  hour-glass,  he  crossed  the 
threshold  and  was  welcomed,  as  he  always  was,  with  grate- 
ful smiles  and  trembling  pressures  of  the  hand.  "  Bless 
the  dear  boy,"  exclaimed  old  Lady  Graves;  "he  has  his 
father's  steps  and  his  mother's  smile.  I  should  know  when 
he  entered,  were  I  blind.  Bless  me,  how  the  young  plants 
shoot  up.  I  remember  when  your  mother  came  to  town,  a 
lovely,  blooming  bride,  as  young  as  Victorine ;  and  your 
father  had  the  princely  air  which  you  have  now  ;  and  now 
he^'s  mouldering  away  in  the  grave,  and  you,  who  were  not 
then,  stand  tall  and  man-like  before  me,  as  if  you  had  risen 
up  out  of  his  ashes.  Alack-a-day !  what  changes  there 
are  in  the  world !  And  I,  poor  old  creature,  who  felt  as 
old  then  as  I  do  now,  may  live  to  see  the  day  when  your 
children  may  be  dandled  on  my  knees,  nor  fear  the  face  of 
a  hundred  years." 

"I  shall  never  marry  anybody,  dear  grandmother," 
answered  Edmund,  smiling.  "  I  think  it  likely  I  shall  live 
an  old  bachelor,  and  take  care  of  mother  till  she  gets  to  be 
as  aged  as  you  are  now." 

"  You  !"  said  the  old  lady,  shaking  her  head.  "  No,  no : 
the  Lord  never  created  you  for  an  old  bachelor.  I  was 
just  thinking,  when  you  came  in,  what  a  beautiful  match 
you  and  Victorine  would  make, — both  so  good,  and  kind, 
and  handsome ;  and  living  so  close  together,  too :  its  natural 
to  be  thinking  about  it." 

"  Somebody  else  is  thinking  about  it,"  said  Edmund,  try- 
ing to  speak  with  indifference.  "  Homer  would  not  like  to 
hear  you  unite  any  name  but  his  with  Victorine's.  He  had 
the  advantage  of  me  whilst  I  was  the  other  side  of  the 
ocean." 

"  He  !"  repeated  the  old  lady,  in  a  sorrowful  tone  ;  "  he's 
too  dark  and  gloomy  to  make  her,  or  anybody  else  happy. 
When  he  was  a  little  boy,  no  higher  than  my  knee,  he 
used  to  sit,  like  a  raven,  in  a  corner,  and  refuse  to  play, 
because,  he  said,  nobody  cared  any  thing  about  him,  and 
he  wouldn't  go  where  he  wasn't  wanted.  I  love  him,  be- 
cause he's  the  son  of  your  mother ;  and  I  love  every  thing 
that  belongs  to  her, — even  the  blades  of  grass  that  grow 
round  the  stepping-stones  of  her  door :  but  I  don't  want 
him  to  marry  that  young  thing,  who's  got  such  a  tender 
heart ;  it  would  break  if  it  were  handled  roughly.  Don't 


AUNT  PATTY'S   SCRAP-BAG. 


235 


be  angry  with  an  old  woman  for  speaking  her  mind  so  plain ; 
the  Lord  fixes  all  these  things  in  his  own  almightiness, 
without  taking  counsel  from  any  one ;  and  I  don't  believe 
he  ever  matched  these  two." 

Edmund  felt  that  his  old  friend  was  leading  him  into 
dangerous  ground ;  and  he  saw,  by  Victorine's  crimsoned 
cheek  and  embarrassed  air,  that  she  was  anxious  to  evade 
the  subject.  She  walked  to  the  window,  and  casting  an 
uneasy  glance  abroad,  declared  the  rain  was  subsiding,  and 
she  feared  they  would  be  wondering  at  her  long  absence. 
Edmund  rose  to  accompany  her ;  he  had  no  umbrella,  but 
he  thought  it  would  be  safe?  to  walk  a  short  distance  in  the 
rain,  than  remain  to  hear  a  conversation  of  which  Homer 
was  the  theme.  They  went  out  together,  and  had  walked 
a  few  steps,  when  Edmund,  suddenly  recollecting  himself, 
exclaimed — "Return,  Victorine,  and  I  will  go  and  bring 
you  an  umbrella  and  shawl.  Strange,  I  should  have  been 
so  careless  of  your  comfort." 

"No,"  answered  she,  hastily;  "I  love  to  walk  in  the 
rain :  nothing  exhilarates  my  spirits  so  much ;  and  to  walk 
with  you,  Edmund,  reminds  me  of  'Auld  lang  syne.' 
You  are  almost  like  a  stranger  to  me  now." 

Victorine  sighed,  and  Edmund  knew  that  his  reserve 
and  coldness,  contrasted  with  his  former  brotherly  fa- 
miliarity, must  appear  very  strange  and  unkind  to  her. 
He  could  not  tell  her  it  was  to  avoid  exciting  his  brother's 
jealousy,  that  he  imposed  such  a  restraint  on  himself.  He 
preferred  bearing  the  reproach  of  caprice  and  inconsistency, 
which,  he  doubted  not,  she  laid  upon  hl"n,  than  expose 
Homer  to  blame. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  you  get  so  wet,"  said  he,  taking  off 
nis  hat,  and  holding  it  against  the  wind  so  as  to  keep  the 
rain,  which  now  fell  faster  and  faster,  from  beating  in  her 
face.  Victorine  protested  against  this  gallantry,  but  Ed- 
mund reminded  her  of  the  days  of  his  boyhood,  when  he 
was  proverbial  for  seeking  the  baptism  of  a  summer 
shower.  There  was  something  exhilarating,  as  Victorine 
said,  in  hurrying  through  the  fast-dropping  rain ;  and  the 
reminiscences  of  childhood,  thus  awakened,  drew  them 
closer  together,  and  made  Edmund  forget,  for  a  moment, 
that  he  was  no  longer  a  boy,  free  as  the  wind,  and  with  a 
heart  as  transparent  aa  the  rain-drops.  Their  gay  laughs 


236 


AUNT   PATTY'S   SCRAP-BAG. 


mingled  together;  Victorine's  long  hair  blew  against  his 
cheeks,  and  fluttered  among  his  dark-brown  locks.  They 
were  children  again,  in  this  merry  plight,  and  could  not 
belp  feeling  sorry  when  they  reached  the  threshold,  where 
they  stopped,  panting  for  breath,  with  glowing  cheeks,  and 
wet,  disordered  hair. 

"  Wasn't  that  a  glorious  run,"  cried  Victorine  ;  "  I 
wouldn't  have  missed  it  for  Gilpin's  thousand  pounds." 

Victorine  turned  her  sparkling  eyes  to  Edmund,  as  she 
spoke,  but  a  coming  figure  "cast  its  shadow  before,"  and 
prevented  his  reply.  Homer  had  seen  their  approach  from 
the  window,  and  the  lion  passion,  lurking  in  the  bottom  of 
his  heart,  leaped  from  its  covert.  Edmund  saw,  by  the 
expression  of  his  countenance,  all  that  was  passing  within; 
and  the  merry  laugh  died  on  his  lips.  He  immediately 
explained  their  unexpected- meeting,  and  the  circumstances 
of  their  return ;  inwardly  reproaching  .himself  for  experi- 
encing so  much  gratification  from  an  accident  which  caused 
his  brother  anguish.  But  the  cloud  still  lowered  on  Homer's 
brow.  The  shower  passed  over,  and, 

"  Far  up  the  blue  sky  a  fair  rainbow  unrolled 
Its  soil-tinted  pinions  of  purple  and  gold." 

Brighter  and  brighter  still  glowed  its  seven-fold  beams,  till 
another  paler  bow  appeared  within,  and  still  another 
beauteous  apparition,  till  the  triple  arch  spanned  the  hea- 
vens, reflected  its  dyes  on  the  green,  glittering  earth  and 
panting  leaves,  and  mirrored  itself  in  the  glassy  depths 
of  the  streams.  The  family  all  gathered  in  the  piazza,  to 
gaze  on  the  messenger  of  peace,  standing,  like  the  apoca- 
lyptic angel,  with  one  foot  on  land,  and  one  foot  on  sea, 
its  garments  dipped  in  the  sun ;  and  they  gazed  till  the 
glory  gradually  departed,  and  nothing  was  left  but  a  soft, 
gray  expanse,  soon  covered  with  the  deeper  gray  of  twi- 
light. Bessy,  at  Mr.  Selwyn's  request,  repeated  Campbell's 
magnificent  address  to  the  rainbow,  which,  he  said,  was  the 
most  unrivalled  of  poems ;  but  Emma  ventured  to  assert, 
much  as  she  admired  the  stanzas,  the  simple  and  sublime 
annunciation  in  scripture,  of  the  "  bow  of  God  set  as  a  cove- 
nant on  the  retreating  clouds  of  the  deluge,"  surpassed  the 
descriptions  of  human  genius. 

Yes :  the  shower  passed  away ;  the  glorious  rainbow  faded 
away ;  the  deep  gray  of  twilight  blackened  into  night,  yet 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  237 

still  the  cloud  lowered  on  Homer's  brow.  The  lamps  were 
lighted.  The  evening  circle  gathered  together,  still  Homer, 
like  a  broken  link  in  the  family  chain,  remained  apart,  and 
the  brightness  of  that  chain  was  impaired.  Mr.  Selwyn  and 
Emma  sat  down  at  a  game  of  chess,  his  favourite  recreation, 
and  one  which  suited  well  her  serious  and  abstracted  turn 
ot  mind.  Since  he  had  discovered  her  talent,  he  had  so 
frequently  called  it  into  requisition,  that  now,  whenever  he 
began  to  arrange  the  men  on  the  board,  she  considered  it  a 
mute  challenge,  and  immediately  relinquished  whatever  occut 
pation  in  which  she  was  engaged,  grateful  that  she  could 
contribute,  in  any  degree,  to  the  amusement  of  so  noble  and 
generous  a  being.  Like  all  great  men,  he  had  his  weak- 
nesses ;  and  one  was,  he  did  not  like  to  be  defeated. 
Emma  played  well  enough  to  interest  him,  without  the 
fear  of  being  often  beaten,  and,  on  that  account,  he  preferred 
her  to  more  experienced  champions.  Emma  had  tact 
enough  to  perceive  this,  and  she  never  tried  to  play  too 
well.  Absorbed  in  this  quiet,  intellectual  game,  the  ine- 
qualities of  Homer's  manner,  which  often  threw  a  shade 
over  the  evening  circle,  were  seldom  perceived  by  them. 
Victorine  played  some  of  her  sweetest  songs  in  concert  with 
Edmund's  flute ;  but  the  evil  spirit  departed  not.  She 
continued  to  play,  however,  after  Edmund  had  laid  down 
his  flute;  and  caught  up,  in  a  wild,  brilliant  manner, 
snatches  of  melody,  changing  as  the  notes  of  a  mocking- 
bird, as  capricious,  and  as  sweet. 

"  Oh !  Victorine,"  exclaimed  Laura,  throwing  down  a 
book  with  which  she  had  been  playing,  rather  than  reading ; 
"  have  mercy  on  our  ears.  You've  banished  Bessy  already. 
She  seems  to  have  lost  her  love  for  music,  lately.  Why, 
what  has  inspired  you  so,  to-night?  That  fine  run  in  the 
rain  with  Edmund  ?  How  happened  you  to  meet  at  those 
evening  belles,  as  Frank  calls  them?  I  really  think  it 
must  have  been  a  concerted  plan.  You  and  Edmund 
both  look  guilty : — see,  how  she  blushes  !  Goodness  ! 
what's  the  matter  with  Homer?  What  sent  him  out  so 
suddenly  ?  Frank,  didn't  you  observe  how  strange  Homer 
looked  ?" 

"  How  can  I  hear  or  observe  any  thing,"  cried  Frank, 
"when  you  overpower  every  thing  with  your  rattling 
tongue  ?  Victorine,  don't  mind  her  nonsense,  but  play  my 


238  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

favourite  song1,  before  you  rise.  I've  been  waiting  patiently 
for  it  the  whole  evening." 

Frank  did  observe,  with  pain  and  displeasure,  the  effect 
of  his  sister's  levity ;  and  sought  to  avert  the  attention  of 
Victorine. 

"  I  cannot  play  any  more,  to-night,  Frank,"  cried  she, 
"  though  you  are  very  kind  to  ask  it." 

She  rose,  with  a  heightened  colour,  and  left  the  room ; 
giving  Laura  a  look,  as  she  passed,  of  unutterable  re- 
proach. 

"Mercy  !  what  a  dull  place  this  is  getting  to  be  !"  cried 
Laura,  trying  to  look  innocent.  "  One  cannot  say  a  word 
in  jest,  but  everybody  takes  it  up  as  seriously  as  if  they 
were  going  to  fight  a  duel.  Look  at  Emma,  glued  down  to 
that  chess-board,  her  head  leaning  on  one  hand,  the  other 
stretched  out  over  the  queen,  like  a  Roman  shield  in  the 
day  of  battle.  I  don't  believe  she  would  hear  if  seven 
thunders  were  pealing  in  her  ears."  Emma  looked  up 
with  a  sweet  smile  that  belied  her  words.  Laura  lowered 
her  voice,  and  continued  : — "  Do  you  know,  Frank,  that  I 
'  think  Emma  is  really  half  in  love  with  old  Mr.  Selwyn  ?" 
Emma  did  not  look  up  again,  but  her  pale  cheek  turned 
red,  and  the  next  move  she  lost  her  queen. 

Mr.  Selwyn,  of  whom  it  might  in  truth  be  said,  that  while 
he  was  playing  chess,  he  would  not  hear  if  seven  thunders 
uttered  their  voice,  kept  calling  out  check,  check,  till  she 
had  no  place  to  turn,  and,  gladly  surrendering,  she  retreated 
from  the  board,  giving  Laura  a  mild,  but  very  rebuking 
glance,  as  she,  too,  passed  out  of  the  room. 

•*  Why,  where  is  everybody  going  ?"  exclaimed  Laura ; 
"  thrre  must  be  something  extraordinary  to  see."  She  went 
out  herself,  with  the  waltzing  step,  leaving  Frank  seriously 
angry  at  her  undaunted  levity. 

In  the  mean  time  Victorine  wandered  in  the  piazza, 
whither  Homer  had  wandered  before,  and  they  met,  face 
to  face,  beneath  the  glimmering  stars,  that  flashed  here 
and  there,  in  the  "darkening  firmament  of  June." 

"  Victorine,"  said  he,  suddenly,  "  walk  with  me  in  the 
garden — I  cannot  speak  to  you  here." 

"  It  is  damp  after  the  shower,"  answered  she,  with  a 
slight  shudder. 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  239 

"  You  did  not  fear  the  dampness,"  replied  he  in  a  bicter 
tone,  "  when  you  were  clinging  to  Edmund's  arm." 

"Come,"  cried  she,  "I  do  not  fear  it  now;"  and  yielding 
to  his  motion,  as  he  drew  her  hand  round  his  arm,  she  fol- 
lowed him  through  the  garden  walks,  into  an  arbour  whose 
shade,  soft  and  refreshing,  in  a  dry,  sultry  evening,  now 
drooped  heavily  over  them,  surcharged  with  the  rain  and 
the  dew. 

"  Your  hand  is  very  cold,  Victorine — I  do  not  wish  to 
chill  you." 

"  It  is  not  half  so  cold  as  my  heart.  There  is  nothing  so 
chilling,  so  freezing  as  suspicion." 

"  I  know  that,  but  too  well.  I  feel  now  as  if  a  girdle  of 
ice  were  round  my  heart.  But  certainty  is  not  suspicion. 
Victorine,  I  know  that  you  love  Edmund." 

"  Homer,  I  came  here  to  be  catechised,  examined,  ques- 
tioned, and  cross-questioned.  I  expected  such  an  inquisi- 
tion, and  I  can  bear  it.  But  I  did  not  come  here  to  be  in- 
sulted, and  I  will  not  bear  it."  The  quick-flowing  blood  of 
the  French  rushed  in  a  burning  current  to  the  face  of  Vic- 
torine, though  darkness  rested  upon  it  as  a  veil. 

"  Stay,"  cried  he,  forcibly  detaining  her,  as  she  attempted 
to  leave  the  grotto — "  it  is  not  an  insult  to  assert  a  fact, 
visible  as  the  sun  at  noonday.  When  did  you  ever  mani- 
fest in  my  company  the  joy,  the  rapture,  that  beamed  in 
your  eyes  this  day,  under  circumstances  that  would  have 
drowned  a  common  emotion  ?  When  did  you  ever  give  me 
such  a  look  as  you  turned  on  Edmund,  when  the  sight  of 
me  seemed  to  change  you  into  stone  ?  Why  go  away  in 
stealth  to  a  spot,  which  you  knew  Edmund  daily  visits,  if  it 
were  not  in  the  hope,  the  certainty,  of  meeting  him,  uncon- 
strained by  my  presence  ?  Victorine,  you  are  silent — you 
cannot  answer  me." 

"  Can  not  answer  you  !"  repeated  she,  indignantly, "  what 
use  in  reasoning  with  a  madman !  And  yet  I  will  reply, 
in  justice  to  myself,  not  you.  How  can  my  eyes  beam  with 
rapture  on  one,  whose  brow  is  ever  clouded  by  suspicion, 
or  darkened  by  jealous  passion  ?  As  well  might  the  volcano 
wonder  that  the  flowers  of  the  valley  withered  under  its 
breath.  As  well  might  the  ice  marvel  that  it  chills  the 
breast  on  which  it  falls,  as  you,  distrustful,  jealous,  and  un- 


240  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

just,  as  you  are,  as  you  wonder  that  I  cannot  iOok  on  you 
with  joy.  You  accuse  me  of  visiting  by  stealth  a  place  fa- 
miliar to  us  all,  as  our  own  family  hearth ;  where  we  all  go 
and  come,  without  ceremony  or  care,  and  where  I  was  as 
likely  to  meet  you,  as  Edmund.  Yes  !  it  was  likely  I  went 
by  stealth,  as  if  ashamed  of  my  purpose,  under  the  light  of 
the  sun  ;  and,  it  was  likely,  too,  that  I  meditated  falsehood 
and  guilt,  by  the  side  of  those  aged  ones,  almost  enveloped 
with  the  shadows  of  the  grave,  with  the  word  of  God  upon 
my  knee,  and  its  sacred  texts  upon  my  lips  !  Oh,  shame  on 
you,  Homer ! — shame  on  your  unmanly  accusations.  I  caro 
not  for  them — I  scorn  them  all ;  but  it  grieves  me,  it  pains 
me,  to  see  you  sunk  in  my  estimation,  unworthy  of  my  re- 
spect, an  object  of  pity  and  condemnation." 

"  All  this  from  you,  Victorine  !"  cried  he,  in  a  subdued 
voice." 

"  Yes,"  answered  she,  excited  beyond  the  power  of  re- 
pressing her  emotions ;  "  all  this,  and  more.  You  must 
read  my  character  better.  You  looked  upon  me  first  as  a 
gay,  sportive  girl,  with  more  vivacity  than  feeling,  whose 
sallies  of  mirth  amused  even  you.  You  believed  me  next 
a  fond,  confiding  maiden,  with  more  tenderness  than  pride, 
whose  love,  once  won,  must  be  an  inalienable  possession. 
You  do  not  know  me  )ret.  I  grant  that  I  have  gayety,  and 
tenderness,  and  trust,  but  I  have  an  independent  spirit,  too, 
that  will  not  brook  the  vassalage  of  your  passions  ;  an  elastic 
one,  that  rebounds  when  it  is  trampled  upon ;  a  strong  one, 
that  would  rend  asunder  the  bonds  that  confine  it,  were  they 
bars  of  iron  and  triple  steel." 

Homer  listened  in  amazement  at  this  burst  of  indignant 
and  outraged  feeling  from  the  usually  gay  and  tender  Vic- 
torine. The  soft,  young  girl  was  converted  into  the  accus- 
ing judge,  ready  to  pronounce  upon  him  the  stern  sentence 
of  the  law.  She  seemed  lost  to  him  for  ever.  His  own  folly 
and  madness  had  sealed  his  doom.  Like  the  base  Judean, 
he  had  thrown  from  him  a  gem  richer  than  all  his  tribe,  and 
he  must  mourn  through  life  the  consequences  of  his  guilty 
rashness.  A  mist  was  swept  from  his  vision.  He  saw 
passion  and  truth  standing  side  by  side,  in  all  their  deformity 
and  purity,  and  lie  wondered  that  he  could  ever  have  yield- 
ed to  the  dominion  of  the  former.  He  remembered  the  vow 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  241 

of  his  generous  brother,  and  he  knew  that  the  lips  of  Ed- 
mund had  never  been  polluted  by  a  falsehood.  He  loathed 
himself — he  repented  in  dust  and  ashes.  As  these  thoughts 
revolved  in  his  mind,  he  sat  with  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands,  bowed  down  with  the  weight  of  self-humiliation. 

Victorine  could  not  see  his  countenance,  but  she  could  see 
his  bowed  attitude,  and  hear  the  deep  sighs,  that  mingled 
with  the  soft  moaning  of  the  night-breeze.  Indignation  in- 
stantaneously melted  into  sorrow.  She  sat  dou-n  beside  him, 
and  put  her  hand  on  his  hot  brow.  "  Oh !  what  a  pity," 
she  exclaimed,  "  that  you  will  not  let  us  love  you  as  we 
might — that  you  will  not  be  happy,  as  you  ought.  We 
might  live  in  such  love  and  harmony :  such  a  charming 
family  of  brothers  and  sisters  ;  such  a  sweet,  angelic  mo- 
ther ;  so  many  blessings,  and  so  many  friends  !  And  then, 
to  crown  the  whole,  such  a  gracious  God  to  watch  over  and 
love  us.  Look  up,  Homer,  let  us  try  to  be  happy  once  more. 
Let  us  forget  and  forgive  what  we  have  both  said.  I  have 
been  too  much  excited,  and  carried  my  resentment  too  far." 

"Forgive  you,"  cried  he,  clasping  his  arms  around  her, 
with  a  wildness  and  impetuosity  that  made  her  tremble — 
"  I  do  not  merit  this  gentleness.  I  deserve  nothing  but  in- 
dignation and  wrath.  I  know  I  am  unworthy  of  your  love, 
and  that  I  have  come  like  a  dark  shadow  over  your  loveli- 
ness and  youth.  And  yet,  Victorine,  if  you  only  knew  how 
I  love  you ;  if  you  could  look  into  my  heart,  and  see  the 
intensity,  the  idolatry  of  my  passion ;  if  you  could  know, 
while  I  am  torturing  you,  what  agony  I  am  enduring  my- 
self, you  would  pity  me  as  the  veriest  wretch  that  ever  lived. 
Would  to  heaven  that  I  had  shut  out  the  first  thought  of 
love — that  I  had  never  dared  to  dream  of  the  possibility  of 
your  loving  me ;  that  I  had  not  encroached  on  your  gentle 
and  pitying  nature,  and  forced  you  into  communion  with  i 
spirit  like  mine.  I  know  that  I  can  never  make  you  happy ; 
that  I  must  ever  be  subject  to  these  paroxysms  of  madness, 
and  that  I  ought  at  this  moment  to  resign  you  for  ever;  and 
yet  the  rending  asunder  of  body  and  soul  must  be  less  painful 
than  the  idea  of  such  a  separation." 

Victorine  listened  tearful  and  agitated  to  these  impassioned 
words,  and  felt  herself  borne  up,  on  the  strong  current  of  his 
emotions,  above  all  selfish  considerations.     She  cared  not 
16 


242  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

whether  she  was  happy  herself  or  not.  She  wished  Homer 
had  never  loved  her,  so  unwisely,  so  passionately,  so  jea- 
lously ;  but  since  he  did  so  love  her,  she  would  endeavour 
to  bear  with  patience  the  infirmities  of  his  nature.  She 
would  repress  the  delight,  pure  and  innocent  as  it  was,  that 
she  felt  in  Edmund's  society,  rather  than  inflict  upon  him 
one  voluntary  pang.  She  would  close  every  avenue  to  jea- 
lousy, with  golden  bars  that  could  not  corrode.  Every  look, 
word,  and  motion  should  be  schooled  to  the  discipline  he 
required.  In  this  self-sacrificing,  martyr-like  mood,  she 
yras  willing  to  be  stretched  on  the  bed  of  Procrustes,  to  be 
tortured  into  any  shape  or  form,  provided  she  could  secure 
the  happiness  of  Homer. 

Victorine  forgot  that  she  was  the  child  of  impulse,  and 
that  she  could  no  more  guard  herself  from  its  influence, 
than  the  young  flower  can  resist  the  gale  that  bows  its  pliant 
stem. 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  243 


CHAPTER  X. 

HAVE  you  ever  seen  a  clearing-up  shower  ?  How,  after 
a  long,  dreary  storm,  when  the  clouds  have  been  gathering, 
and  apparently  dispersing,  then  gathering  again,  coming 
down  in  a  heavy,  drizzling  rain,  a  darker  cloud  condenses, 
the  lightning  burns  on  its  blackness,  the  thunder  bursts 
from  its  bosom,  and  the  drops  fall  thick  and  plashing  till 
they  mingle  in  one  broad  sheet  of  water,  threatening  to 
deluge  the  earth  ?  Suddenly,  the  clouds  roll  back,  the  blue 
sky  trembles  through  the  chasm,  then  the  sun  shines  forth 
in  its  glory ;  the  birds  fly  warbling  from  their  coverts,  the 
trees  shake  the  rain-drops  from  their  green  leaves,  the 
flowers  lift  up  their  fair  heads,  looking  timidly  towards 
heaven,  and  all  nature  rejoices  as  in  the  morning  of  its  na- 
tivity. Then  follow  long  genial  days  of  sunshine,  sun- 
shine without  a  shade,  save  here  and  there  a  solitary  white 
cloud,  floating  gently  along,  till  it  melts  in  the  soft  tran- 
quillity of  blue.  There  are  clearing-up  showers  in  the 
moral  world,  also ;  when  long  lowering  doubts  and  sullen 
suspicions  gather  into  the  thunder  cloud  of  passion,  which 
discharges  its  electric  fires,  and  leaves  the  heart  purified 
and  invigorated. 

Victorine  now  rejoiced  in  this  moral  sunshine,  and 
smiled,  sang,  and  sported  once  more.  Bask  awhile  in  this 
sunshine,  thou  child  of  sunny  France,  and  let  thy  young 
spirt  bathe  joyously  in  its  beams  ;  for  the  dark  hour  may 
yet  come,  and  the  sunshine  depart,  and  the  air  blow  chill  on 
thy  soul. 

Do  you  remember  the  arbour  where  Homer  and  Victo- 
rine sat,  the  night  of  the  clearing-up  shower  ?  Will  you 
walk  there  again,  in  the  calm,  glowing  twilight,  and  take  a 
seat  by  the  two,  who  sit  there  side  by  side,  in  the  shadow 
of  those  clustering  vines  ?  Do  not  imagine  that  it  is  Homer 
and  Victorine,  lingering  still  on  the  trysting  spot  of  their 


244  AUNT  PATTY'S  BCRAP-BAG. 

reconciliation.  It  is  Frank  and  Bessy, — and  by  the  soft 
and  pensive  hour,  the  retired,  romantic  place,  it  may  be 
supposed,  they  have  met  to  converse  on  some  sentimental 
theme,  and  that  Vivian  has  been  thus  soon  supplanted  ;  so 
fickle  is  the  heart  of  woman  deemed.  Will  you  listen,  as 
their  voices  sound  low,  in  the  hush  of  that  still  hour,  and 
decide  upon  the  truth  and  constancy  of  Bessy  ?  They 
have  been  sitting  there  all  the  time  yon  bird  has  been 
singing  its  vesper  hymn  to  the  God  of  the  twilight ;  and 
you  must  discover  the  secret  of  their  past  conversation  by 
the  words  they  are  now  uttering. 

"  No,  Frank,"  said  Bessy,  making  a  kind  of  fairy  lattice- 
work of  the  tendrils  of  the  vine,  "  I  know  that  my  feelings 
will  never  change.  I  grant  that  all  you  say  is  true,  that 
his  absence  is  inexplicable,  perhaps  unjustifiable,  and  that 
I  may  be  doomed  to  waste  the  season  of  youth  and  hope,  in 
the  sadness  of  memory.  I  have  always  loved  you  as  a 
friend,  and  had  no  being  come,  who  awakened  all  the  capa- 
bilities my  heart  has  of  loving,  I  might  have  been  satisfied 
with  this  gentle  feeling,  not  knowing  that  a  stronger  and 
deeper  existed  within  me.  But  now  it  is  all  in  vain. 
Don't  speak  of  it  again,  Frank.  It  makes  me  very  un- 
happy. It  fills  me  with  a  sense  of  injustice  and  wrong, 
and  yet,  if  I  know  my  own  heart,  I  have  never  deceived 
you.  In  my  wish  to  be  ingenuous,  I  fear  I  have  sacrificed 
delicacy  to  truth,  and  made  an  avowal  which  ought  to  cover 
me  with  blushes." 

The  sweet  roses  of  modesty  did  bloom  most  beautifully 
for  a  few  moments  on  Bessy's  cheek.  The  hue  of  the  rose 
had  lately  been  wanting  there. 

"  Fool  that  I  was,"  exclaimed  Frank,  "  not  to  think  of 
this  before  Vivian  came.  I  never  cared  about  any  one  but 
you  ;  but  because  I  was  a  foolish,  hair-brained  youth,  that 
liked  to  make  people  laugh,  you  thought  I  could  not  think 
and  feel  deeply.  I  did  not  know  how  deeply  and  strongly 
I  could  feel  myself,  till  I  met  that  Vivian  here,  and  found 
him  monopolizing  you,  as  all  his  own.  If  I  had  only  been 
first  to  speak,  for  I  was  first  to  love  !  He  paints  divinely, 
it  is  true — but  who  couldn't  paint  you,  Bessy  ?  I  could 
make  an  angel  of  you  myself,  with  one  stroke  of  the  pencil. 
He  writes  charming  poetry — so  can  I.  I  made  more  than 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  245 

fifty  verses  on  you  last  night.  I  never  wrote  any  in  my 
life,  till  you  inspired  me.  Bessy,  you  could  make  a 
painter,  a  poet,  or  an  orator  of  me,  perhaps  a  great  and  good 
man.  If  you  cast  me  off,  I  shall  be  nothing  but  a  discon- 
tented, moping  bachelor,  who  will  not  live  out  half  his 
days." 

"  Now,  dear  Frank,  pray  listen  to  me  one  moment,  even 
as  to  a  sister ;  and  do  not  be  angry,  or  think  I  mock  your 
constancy.  But  I  know  your  nature,  and  know  that  disap- 
pointment cannot  long  rest  heavily  on  you.  You  will 
throw  off  the  weight  and  feel  lighter  and  happier  from  con- 
trast :  and  there  is  one,  Frank,  whom  you  have  known  as 
long  as  you  have  me,  ten  thousand  times  better  than  I  am  ; 
who  might  indeed  make  you  a  great  and  good  man,  and 
whose  affections  might  possibly  be  won.  By  and  by,  all 
you  now  feel  for  me  will  pass  away  like  a  dream  of  the 
morning ;  every  thing  earthly  will  pass  away,  but  she,  if 
you  would  love  her,  Frank,  she  would  lead  you  gently  up 
to  heaven,  where  there  are  no  dreams  to  delude,  but  all  is 
glorious  reality." 

Bessy  sighed,  and  passed  her  hand  over  her  brow,  wish- 
ing she  had  the  same  calm,  angelic  temperament  of  her 
sister  Emma.  Frank  crushed  the  grass  under  his  feet; 
pulled  off  the  twigs  of  the  bower,  and  strewed  them  on  the 
ground ;  then  rose  and  walked  backward  and  forward  as 
far  as  the  length  of  the  arbour  would  permit,  but  finding 
himself  compelled  to  turn  too  often,  he  sat  impatiently 
down. 

"Don't  talk  to  me  of  another,"  said  he.  "I  know 
whom  you  mean ;  she's  a  dear,  good  girl,  but  no  more  to 
be  compared  to  you  than  a  glow-worm  to  a  star.  I  am 
not  thinking  of  myself  now.  I  don't  care  for  myself.  If 
you  were  happy,  I  could  willingly  hang  myself  to-mor- 
row. But  when  I  hear  you  sigh,  and  look  up  so  sadly,  I 
feel  as  if  a  two-edged  sword  were  passing  through  my 
body.  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  Bessy,  if  it's  the  last  breath 
I  have  to  utter ;  if  that  Vivian  does  prove  to  be  a  rascal,  as 
I'm  terribly  afraid  he  is,  I'll  shoot  him,  if  they  put  a  halter 
on  my  neck  the  next  moment." 

"  Don't  shoot  me,  Frank,"  cried  Estelle  laughing,  and 
catching  his  last  words,  as  she  bounded  into  the  arbour. 


246  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

"  Bessy,  mother  says  you  mustn't  stay  here  any  longer,  for 
the  dew  is  beginning  to  fall.  Aunt  Patty  wants  you  to  cut 
out  some  more  hexagons  for  her  bed-quilt ;  and  I  want  you 
to  press  those  flowers  for  me,  I  gathered  this  morning. 
Everybody  wants  you  in  the  house." 

"  Not  Homer,  if  Victorine  is  near,"  said  Frank. 

"  No,  perhaps  not,"  answered  Estelle,  thoughtfully ; 
**  they  are  reading  a  book  together — and  Mr.  Selwyn  is 
showing  some  pictures  to  Emma,  and  explaining  them  all 
beautifully.  But  Edmund — I  know  Edmund  wants  you, 
for  he  is  sitting  alone,  looking  so  serious,  with  his  head 
leaning  on  his  hand,  just  so;"  and  she  rested  her  blooming 
cheek  pensively  on  the  palm  of  her  right  hand.  Estelle 
ran  before  them,  to  gather  flowers,  sweeter  than  ever  at 
that  dewy  hour. 

Frank  said  in  a  low  voice  to  Bessy,  "  Do  you  know 
what  I  have  been  thinking  lately  ?  What  if  Edmund 
should  love  Victorine !" 

"  Heaven  forbid !"  exclaimed  Bessy,  so  loud  that  Es- 
telle dropped  her  flowers,  and  looked  round, — but  the  next 
moment  she  was  on  the  wing.  "Heaven  forbid!"  con- 
tinued Bessy,  in  a  lower,  more  earnest  tone.  "  What 
wretchedness  would  it  bring  on  himself!  What  misery  on 
others  !  Breathe  not  such  a  supposition  in  Homer's  ear, 
if  you  would  not  drive  him  mad." 

"  Fear  not,  Bessy ;  I  have  more  consideration  than  you 
think  I  have.  But  I  am  vexed,  that  Homer  took  it  into 
his  gloomy  head  to  fall  in  love  with  Victorine,  while  Ed- 
mund was  away.  He  isn't  fit  to  be  a  lover.  She  thinks 
she  loves  him,  because  he  was  the  first  one  that  ever 
bowed  at  her  shrine  ;  and  she  was  proud  of  taming  such  a 
lion.  But  she  fears  him  now,  more  than  she  loves  him ; 
and  at  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  I  know  she  must  often 
wish  that  Edmund  had  wooed  her,  instead  of  Homer. 
Who  could  help  loving  Edmund  ?  I  do  not  think  it  any 
disgrace  for  a  girl  to  fall  in  love  with  him,  even  un- 
authorized and  unasked.  His  every  glance  and  smile 
have  witchery  in  them.  Victorine's  too — such  a  splen- 
did girl !  I  was  terribly  smitten  with  her  myself, 
once,  when  I  saw  her  in  that  flowered  frock.  Such  an 
eye !  such  a  mouth  !  If  it  had  not  been  for  you  I 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  247 

should  certainly  have  rivalled  Homer.  Fool  that  I  was, 
to  let  that." 

Frank  bit  his  lips,  and  Bessy  could  not  forbear  to  smile, 
though  the  new  idea,  which  he  had  suggested  with  re- 
gard to  Edmund,  filled  her  with  alarm.  She  had  been  so 
selfishly  absorbed  in  her  own  regrets  and  sorrows,  she  had 
scarcely  noticed  what  was  passing  around  her.  She  re- 
proached herself  for  her  want  of  sympathy  ;  her  forgetful- 
ness  of  the  happiness  of  others.  When  she  entered  the 
house,  she  took  a  seat  by  Edmund,  who  sat  as  Estelle  had 
described,  apart  and  abstracted  ;  with  a  paler  cheek  and 
sadder  brow  than  she  had  seen  him  wear  since  his  re- 
turn. "How  forgetful,  how  neglectful  have  I  been," 
thought  she,  "  of  this  dear,  irreproachable  brother  of 
mine!  How  completely  swallowed  up  in  self!  Shall  I 
brood  in  sullen  secrecy  over  the  image  of  a  stranger,  ob- 
livious of  one  whom  I  have  always  loved  with  such  idoliz- 
ing affections  ?  and  he  too  may  be  unhappy  !" 

These  self-reproachful  thoughts  gave  an  inexpressible 
softness  to  her  countenance,  and  tenderness  to  her  manner, 
as,  seated  closely  at  his  side,  she  leaned  her  arm  in  his  lap, 
and  her  radiant  ringlets  glittered  on  his  breast.  There 
was  something  so  endearing  in  her  attitude,  so  supplicating 
in  her  look,  so  beautiful  and  graceful  in  her  whole  appear- 
ance, that  Edmund  gazed  upon  her  for  a  moment  as  upon 
a  lovely  picture  ;  then  putting  his  arm  around  her,  he 
drew  her  closer  to  him,  and  the  shadow  passed  away  from 
his  brow.  Estelle  came  running  in,  with  her  white  apron 
full  of  flowers,  and  sitting  down  on  the  carpet  the  other 
side  of  him,  began  to  arrange  them  into  groups.  "  Stop," 
cried  Laura,  approaching  them.  "Don't  move,  any  of 
you ;  you  must  be  attitudinizing  for  a  picture,  I  never 
saw  any  thing  so  pretty  in  my  life.  I  wish  Vi,  ..i  was 
here.  Don't  you,  Bessy  ?" 

"No:  she  don't,"  answered  Estelle,  covering  Bess/  s 
short,  quick  sigh  with  the  sound  of  her  eager  voice. 
"  She  wouldn't  beg  him  to  stay  when  I  asked  her ;  and 
she  didn't  even  bid  him  good-by.  I  don't  like  Mr. 
Vivian  at  all,  for  not  staying  and  painting  Aunt  Patty  and 
me,  when  he'd  got  the  big  canvas  all  ready.  I  heard 
Aunt  Patty  tell  Bessy,  the  other  day,  if  he  did  come  back, 


248  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

not  to  have  any  thing  more  to  say  to  him ;  for  she  liked 
Frank  the  best,  after  all." 

"And  did  Aunt  Patty  say  that,"  exclaimed  Frank. 
"  Bless  the  dear  old  soul !  I'll  go,  this  minute,  and  take  a 
pinch  of  snuff  with  her,  and  praise  her  bed-quilt  till  my 
tongue  aches." 

"Wait  for  me,"  cried  Estelle;  and  gathering  her 
flowers  up  in  her  apron,  she  scattered  some  of  the  roses 
over  Edmund's  and  Bessy's  head,  and  flew  off  with  Frank, 
to  give  the  rest  to  her  beloved  Aunt  Patty. 

"  Edmund,"  cried  Laura,  "  you  are  really  growing  dull. 
You  don't  think  of  making  yourself  agreeable ;  you 
have  given  up  all  our  pleasant  walks  and  rides,  except 
a  walk  in  the  rain,  sometimes.  I  don't  believe  any 
one  cares  about  my  company.  I  mean  to  go  home  to- 
morrow." 

"  No !"  said  Edmund,  catching,  by  sympathy,  her 
gay  tone.  "I  plead  guilty  to  your  charge,  but  I  will 
redeem  my  character.  I  will  plan  a  voyage  to  the 
moon,  if  it  please  you ;  or  a  walk  to  the  summit  of  Mont 
Blanc." 

"  When  you  run  off  into  impossibles,  I  know  you 
don't  mean  to  do  any  thing.  If  you  would  plan  an  excur- 
sion to  yonder  mountain," — and  she  pointed  to  the  blue 
outline  of  one  that  gracefully  undulated  in  the  distance,  on 
the  still,  glowing  horizon, — "  there  would  be  some  gallantry, 
and  practicability,  too,  in  the  act." 

"  Your  word  shall  be  law  !"  cried  he.  "  I  have  been  on 
the  summit,  and  a  more  enchanting  prospect  never  opened 
on  the  ravished  eye.  The  ascent  is  steep,  but  the  difficulty 
only  adds  interest  to  the  expedition.  We  can  ride  to  the 
foot  of  the  mountain,  and  then  begin  our  pedestrian  journey. 
But  it  will  never  do  for  you,  Laura ;  for  you  cannot  go  in 
satin  slippers,  and  you  never  deign  to  wear  any  thing  of 
grosser  materials." 

"  O  yes :  I  would  wear  wooden  shoes,  for  the  sake  of  the 
novelty.  I  am  willing  to  put  on  a  home-spun  frock,  if  you 
will  promise  to  escort  me  to  that  delightful  place.  I  am 
actually  dying  of  ennui,  and  the  very  thought  of  some- 
thing new,  gives  me  new  life.  Bessy,  will  you  go? 
Abstracted  Mr.  Homer,  and  sentimental  Miss  Victorine, 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  249 

will  you  go  ?  Good  Mr.  Selwyn,  and  grave  Miss  Emma, 
will  you  go  ?" 

She  went  gayly  from  one  to  the  other,  making  low,  slid- 
ing courtesies,  without  waiting  for  an  answer ;  and  laugh- 
ing at  their  sudden  look  of  curiosity. 

"Go  where?"  asked  Homer;  alarmed  at  the  thought 
of  a  party  of  pleasure. 

"  To  that  mountain,  which  always  reminds  me  of  Ossian's 
ghosts,  in  its  mantle  of  mist,"  answered  Bessy. 

"  If  the  mountain  cannot  come  to  us,  I  suppose  we  can 
go  to  the  mountain,"  said  Mr.  Selwyn,  with  an  assenting 
smile ;  and  the  rest  of  the  evening  was  employed  in 
arranging  this  romantic  excursion. 

They  all  went  out  to  have  a  better  view  of  the  azu  re- 
crowned  peak,  and  lingered  till  evening  set  a  brilliant 
diamond  on  its  brow,  and  then  another,  till  it  was  encircled 
by  a  sparkling  bandeau  of  starry  gems.  Beautiful  did  it 
look,  invested  with  the  regality  of  heaven,  in  the  stillness 
of  the  midsummer  night. 

"What  was  the  name  of  this  beautiful  mountain?"  per- 
haps some  young  geographer  may  ask ;  tracing  the  out- 
lines of  the  map  of  imagination,  undecided  where  to  pause. 
Its  name  might  be  told, — for  it  has  a  name,  and  it  was 
baptized  with  the  mists  of  morning,  and  the  dews  of  even- 
ing,— and  it  is  a  sweet,  euphonious  name,  given  by  the 
Indians,  who  once  hunted  at  its  base.  But  let  it  now  be 
incog. 

Reader !  art  thou  a  stranger,  far  from  the  home  of  thy 
childhood,  and  the  scenes  of  thy  youth  ?  Does  not  the 
thought  of  the  green  fields  and  blue  hills  of  thy  native 
soil  make  thy  pulses  quicken,  and  thy  cheek  glow? 
Do  you  not  seem  to  sit  once  more  under  the  shade  of  some 
dear,  familiar  tree,  planted  by  the  hand  of  your  forefathers, 
and  feel  the  same  gale  that  fanned  your  infant  brow,  rust- 
ling through  its  leaves  ?  In  the  horizon  that  bounded  your 
vision,  was  there  one  lone  hill,  rising,  like  an  angel's 
throne,  above  the  valley  that  encircled  it,  which  caught  the 
first  gleam  of  the  rising  sun,  and  arrested  its  last  purple 
ray  ?  And  has  not  your  mother  directed  your  young  eye 
to  its  summit,  and  talked  to  you  of  the  days  of  old,  when 
God  came  down  upon  the  mountains,  and  hallowed  them 


250  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

with  His  presence  ?  Of  Sinai,  with  its  thunders  and 
lightnings,  and  thick  smoke ;  of  Nebo,  where  the  aged 
prophet  sat  and  gazed  upon  that  land  he  was  not  per- 
mitted to  enter;  or  of  Calvary,  once  stained  with  the 
Redeemer's  blood  ?  If  there  is  one  spot  among  the  granite 
hills,  round  which  such  associations  cluster,  imagine 
this  to  be  the  same,  and  it  will  be  sacred  in  your 
eyes. 

By  the  rising  sun, — no :  it  was  long  before  the  ris- 
ing sun,  that  Estelle  wakened,  roused  her  sisters,  and 
knocked  at  her  brother's  door.  They  were  to  have  a 
very  early  breakfast,  so  as  to  start  before  the  heat  of  the 
day  commenced.  She  had  hardly  closed  her  eyes  the 
whole  night,  she  was  so  excited  at  the  thought  of  climbing 
to  the  tip-top  of  a  mountain,  and  seeing  their  own  home, 
too,  through  a  telescope,  after  she  reached  there.  She  felt 
taller,  older,  and  wiser.  She  made  Aunt  Patty  promise  to 
sit  with  her  head  out  of  the  window  all  day,  so  that  she 
could  see  her  too.  If  she  had  asked  her  to  step  out  of  the 
window,  on  the  mountain-top,  she  would  involuntarily  have 
answered,  "  Yes ;"  for  she  never  dreamed  of  saying  No, 
to  Estelle.  The  young  party  were  in  readiness  long 
before  the  horses  and  carriages  came  to  the  door,  though 
Laura  was  the  last  to  make  her  appearance,  as  usual,  all 
a  la  mode. 

"Now,  Laura,  you  know  you  can't  clamber  up  the 
mountain  in  that  dress,". cried  Frank.  "Whoever  heard 
of  one's  putting  on  a  fine,  fashionable  silk,  to  jump  about 
among  the  rocks  and  shrubs  ?  Those  kid  slippers,  too, 
and  lace  stockings !  Look  at  Emma  and  Bessy : — they 
can  frisk  about  as  they  please,  without  danger  of  leaving 
half  their  clothes  behind  them.  I  beg  pardon, — I  don't 
believe  Emma  ever  was  guilty  of  friskiness  in  her 
life." 

"  It  is  difficult  to  frisk  about,  as  you  say,  Frank,  with  a 
feeble  body,"  said  Emma,  with  a  gentle  smile  ;  "  but  I  feel 
eo  much  stronger  and  better  now,  than  I  once  did,  I  don't 
think  I  shall  consent  to  stay  in  that  little  cave  half-way  up, 
where  you  talk  of  depositing  me." 

"  Forgive  me,  Emma ;  I  didn't  mean  to  remind  you 
of  one  ill  of  mortality,  this  delightful  morning.  You 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  251 

looked  so  bright  and  rosy,  that  I  forgot  you  were  the 
invalid." 

"  She's  thinking  of  what  a  charming  ride  she  will  have 
with  Mr.  Selwyn,"  said  Laura.  "If  I  were  Emma,  [ 
should  be  tired  to  death  of  such  an  old  beau." 

"How  ridiculous!  to  call  Mr.  Selwyn  a  beau,"  ex- 
claimed Emma,  with  some  asperity;  "and  always  to  be 
calling  him  old.  He  is  very  far  from  being  an  old 
man;  and  he  has  all  the  warmth  and  enthusiasm  of 
youth,  still." 

"I  dare  say  he  has,"  said  Frank,  laughing;  "and  he 
is  one  of  the  finest-looking  men  I  ever  saw.  If  I  were 
injured,  I  would  go  to  him  for  redress.  If  I  were  weak, 
for  protection ;  if  poor,  for  relief.  There,  Emma,  I  have 
made  a  speech  expressly  for  you.  As  for  Laura's  call- 
ing him  old,  it  is  nothing  but  spite, — just  as  children 
call  every  thing  old  out  of  their  reach.  You  remember 
the  little  boy,  who  told  his  mother  he  hated  and  despised 
that  old  cake,  when  she  was  resolute  in  denying  it  to 
him." 

Here  Frank  stopped,  and  burst  into  a  louder  laugh  at 
the  sight  of  Estelle,  with  a  basket  on  her  arm  half  as 
large  as  herself. 

"  What  do  you  ask  for  your  butter,  chickens,  and  eggs, 
my  little  market-woman  ?"  cried  he,  trying  to  peep  under 
the  lid,  to  her  great  displeasure. 

"You  are  so  rude,  Frank,"  cried  she,  pushing  him 
back  with  a  dignified  air.  "You  always  pull  every 
thing  so.  I  won't  give  you  any,  if  you  don't  let  my 
basket  alone." 

"Well,  if  I  can't  use  one  sense,  I  can  another;  and  the  nose 
is  as  good  as  the  eyes,  sometimes.  You've  got  something 
there  that  smells  very  inviting,  so  I'll  be  on  my  good  beha- 
viour now.  You  look  like  a  sweet  little  flower-girl,  with 
that  basket  hanging  gracefully  on  your  arm,  Estelle." 

"Oh,  I  was  a  big,  old,  ugly  market-woman,  just  now. 
You  change  your  tune  too  quick,  Master  Frank,"  cried  the 
child,  archly  curling  her  ruby  lip. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you  in  such  fine  spirits,  Frank,"  said 
Edmund. 

"  All  forced,"  replied  he,  sighing,  but  his  deep  sigh  only 


252 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 


made  others  smile ;  "  and  yet  there  is  something  exhilarating 
in  rising  so  early,  breathing  the  clear  morning  air,  and 
having  the  prospect  of  a  fine  ride,  a  fine  dinner  on  the 
mountain,  and  ever  so  many  charming  adventures." 

"  Oh,  yes !"  said  Bessy,  with  one  of  her  long-absent, 
sunny  smiles,  "  we  must  have  some  adventures,  indeed. 
Victorine  shall  be  the  gipsy  of  our  party,  Homer  the  seer, 
and  I  will  be  the  prophetess  ;  and  oh  !  such  visions  of  glory 
will  I  call  up,  that  you  will  all  pray  me  to  spare  your  aching 
sight." 

"  Frank  and  I  will  be  your  knights,"  said  Edmund,  re- 
joicing in  Bessy's  returning  sunshine  ;  "  Laura  and  Emma 
two  ladies  fair — and  Estelle" — 

"  Our  little  market-woman,"  added  Frank. 

Here  Mr.  Selwyn  drove  up  to  the  door,  in  a  splendid 
landau,  which  he  had  brought  from  Europe,  and  which 
had  excited  the  admiration  of  the  country  people.  His 
noble  and  aristocratic  appearance,  corresponded  well  with 
me  elegance  of  his  equipage ;  and  the  fashionable  Laura 
would  not  have  disdained  a  seat  at  his  side.  But  the  hand 
was  first  held  out  to  Emma,  who  sprang  in  so  lightly, 
that  Frank  might  have  accused  her  of  being  guilty  of 
friskiness. 

"  Who  else?"  said  Mr.  Selwyn,  looking  smilingly  on  the 
fair  faces  in  the  doorway. 

"  Me,"  cried  Estelle,  tugging  along  with  her  basket,  "  I 
want  to  ride  in  that  carriage." 

Estelle  seemed  to  flutter  through  the  air,  so  quickly 
did  Mr.  Selwyn  accomplish  her  wish,  and,  laughing  and 
triumphant,  she  looked  up  to  Aunt  Patty,  who,  seated 
in  her  arm-chair,  beheld  from  her  open  window  the  depart- 
ing group. 

Edmund  was  to  accompany  Laura  and  Bessy  in  the  fa- 
mily carriage,  Homer  and  Victorine  to  ride  together  in  in 
open  barouche,  and  Frank  to  follow  on  horseback. 

"  Oh,  how  I  wish  mother  and  Aunt  Patty  were  going," 
cried  Estelle,  in  the  prodigality  of  her  joy ;  "  they  would 
have  such  a  nice  ride." 

Mrs.  Worth,  who  stood  on  the  threshold,  shook  her  head 
and  smiled,  though  a  tear  trembled  in  her  eye.  The  figure 
of  Mr.  Selwyn  reminded  her  of  her  husband ;  and  the  re- 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  253 

membrance  of  her  own  youthful,  love-lighted  days,  rushed 
back  upon  her  soul. 

"  Don't  ride  too  far  up  the  mountain,"  said  the  anxious 
mother ;  "  and,  Emma,  don't  walk  too  much  ;  you  must  pro- 
mise to  rest  in  the  cave." 

"  I  will  take  excellent  care  of  her,"  replied  Mr.  Selwyn. 
•'  Trust  her  with  me,  and  she  shall  return  in  safety." 

"  Come  back  before  it  is  dark,"  called  out  Aunt  Pat- 
ty ;  "  the  carriages  may  upset,  and  your  necks  be  bro- 
ken." 

"  Don't  prophesy  evil,  Aunt  Patty" — cried  Edmund, 
kissing  his  hand  to  her,  in  token  of  adieu — "if  you  do, 
you  will  be  a  Cassandra,  doomed  to  be  unbelieved." 

They  were  just  about  to  give  the  signal  to  depart,  when 
a  man  on  horseback  rode  into  the  yard,  and  handed  a  letter 
to  Homer.  He  read  it,  knit  his  brow,  looked  at  Victorine, 
and  exclaimed :  "  How  unfortunate  !  I  am  summoned  away, 
upon  some  business  connected  with  my  father's  estate, 
which  ought  to  have  been  attended  to  long  ago.  It  cannot 
be  deferred.  What  shall  I  do  ?" 

"  Go,  by  all  means,"  cried  Victorine,  springing  from  the 
barouche,  "  I  will  stay  behind." 

"  Thank,  thank  you  !"  exclaimed  he,  warmly  pressing 
the  hand  which  he  still  held ;  "  then  it  is  no  disap- 
pointment to  me.  I  did  not  wish  to  go,  but  for  your 
sake." 

"No,  no,  Victorine  must  not  stay,"  cried  every  voice  but 
Edmund's ;  "  there  is  room  for  her  here — and  here — and 
here — we  will  not  go  without  Victorine." 

"  No— it  is  better  that  I  should  stay,  since  Homer  wishes 
it,"  said  Victorine,  but  the  flush  on  her  cheek,  and  the  tremor 
of  her  voice,  denied  the  resignation  of  her  words.  Homer 
remained  silent,  and  made  figures  on  the  ground  with  his 
whip.  Victorine  felt  his  selfishness  more  than  her  disap- 
pointment, and  her  heart  rebelled  against  him." 

"Cannot  I  transact  your  business,  brother?"  asked 
Edmund,  approaching  Homer.  "  I  shall  not  be  missed  half 
as  much,  for  there's  a  driver  to  our  carriage,  and  La^ra  and 
Bessy  will  be  protected  by  being  in  company  wil  h.  Mr.  Sel- 
wyn and  yourself." 


254  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

Laura  pouted,  and  declared  she  would  not  go  without  a 
gentleman  to  escort  her,  and  loudly  protested  against  Homer's 
selfishness. 

"No  one  can  transact  the  business  but  myself,  as  the 
eldest  son,"  replied  Homer,  gloomily,  watching  the  changing 
countenance  of  Victorine  ;  "  and  as  no  one  will  regret  my 
absence,  it  matters  not  to  me.  Victorine,  I  will  not  force 
your  inclinations.  I  see  you  wish  to  go,  and  will  probably 
be  far  happier  without  me." 

"  How  unjust !"  cried  Victorine  ;  "  and  all  but  Edmund 
echoed  her  words.  Victorine  cast  an  appealing  glance  at 
Mrs.  Worth,  for  direction  and  decision.  She  did  not  wish 
it  supposed  that  she  was  so  much  under  the  influence 
of  Homer,  as  to  fear  to  act  contrary  to  his  selfish  will.  Her 
high  spirit  revolted  at  this  thought.  Besides,  she  was  an 
impassioned  admirer  of  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  had 
often  longed  for  wings,  that  she  might  perch  on  that 
mountain's  top — she  really  longed  to  go,  and  her  eyes 
expressed  this  longing  in  their  dark  resplendent  depths. 

"Victorine  might  take  Edmund's  seat,  and  Edmund 
ride  on  horseback,  in  company  with  Frank,  as  a  general 
escort,  suggested  Mrs.  Worth ;  and  the  proposition  was 
received  with  acclamations.  Homer  looked  reproachfully, 
even  indignantly  at  his  mother,  and  Laura  whispered  to 
Bessy  that  a  thunder-storm  had  risen,  and  that  they  had 
better  make  haste. 

"  You  are  not  angry  with  me,  Homer,"  said  Victorine, 
gently  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm;  "1  would  not  go, 
indeed,"  added  she,  in  a  lower  voice,  "  if  it  would  not 
look  so  very  strange  for  me  to  stay.  You  know  it  would." 

"  Look  !"  repeated  he,  scornfully,  drawing  away  his  arm 
from  the  soft  pressure  of  her  hand ;  "  always  thinking  of 
what  people  will  say.  I  care  not  what  they  say,  or  think, 
or  feel.  Why  do  you  linger  ?  They  have  brought  Ed- 
mund's horse ;  they  are  waiting  for  you.  You  are  at  per- 
fect liberty  to  do  as  you  please.  I  was  called  away  very 
opportunely — very  opportunely,  indeed." 

"I  agree  with  you  entirely" — cried  she,  with  spirit, 
slung  to  the  soul,  by  his  bitter,  taunting  manner.  "Ed- 
mund, will  you  hand  me  to  the  carriage,  since  Homer  has 
not  the  gallantry  to  do  it — a  horse  on  one  hand,  and  a 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  255 

maiden  on  the  other,  make  you  look  very  much  like  a 
knight." 

She  said  this  with  a  smile,  as  he  led  her  along,  but  he 
knew  that  she  was  ill  at  ease,  and  his  own  cheek  reddened, 
and  his  heart  throbbed.  The  carriages  rolled  out  of  the 
yard ;  Edmund's  and  Frank's  gay  horses  pranced  In  the 
rear ;  Estelle  and  Aunt  Patty  kept  nodding  to  each  other 
till  a  turn  in  the  road  concealed  the  cavalcade  from  view  ; 
and  Homer  stood  with  folded  arms,  and  compressed  and 
trembling  lips,  gazing  after  it. 

At  first  Edmund  rode  silently  and  sadly  by  the  side  of 
Frank,  and  Victorine  kept  her  face  studiously  turned  from 
her  companions  ;  but  it  was  impossible  to  ride  silently  and 
sadly  long,  in  such  glorious  sunshine,  such  genial  air,  the 
birds  singing  so  joyously  over-head,  and  the  landscape 
glowing  with  such  life  below.  To  ride,  too,  with  such  fine 
horses,  whose  feet  kept  such  perfect  time,  on  the  smooth, 
hard,  beaten  road — there  was  joy  in  the  motion ;  there 
was  joy  in  the  mere  consciousness  of  existence.  Then  the 
spirits  of  youth  are  so  elastic,  and  rebound  so  high  after  a 
sudden  pressure  ;  it  is  not  strange,  that  every  cloud  dis- 
persed, and  that  nothing  was  heard  but  merry  voices,  and 
nothing  seen  but  smiling  faces. 

The  road  grew  more  rough  and  rocky  as  they  approached 
the  mountain,  which  began  with  a  gentle  acclivity,  growing 
gradually  more  and  more  steep,  till  they  came  to  a  kind 
of  green  platform,  where  they  considered  it  expedient  to 
leave  their  carriages,  and  continue  their  journey  on  foot. 
Emma  cast  an  anxious  glance  up  the  precipitous  path, 
which  seemed,  in  some  places,  perpendicular,  and  thought 
she  might  possibly  welcome  the  cave,  as  a  cool  resting- 
place.  Laura  looked  down  on  her  delicate  slippers,  and 
thought  it  possible  the  sharp  rocks  might  wound  her  feet. 
Estelle  looked  at  her  basket,  and  thought  it  might  feel  too 
heavy  before  she  reached  the  top,  but  she  could  not  be  per- 
suaded to  leave  it  behind.  The  rest  felt  too  much  like 
young  eagles,  longing  to  try  the  strength  of  their  wings, 
and  to  fly  nearer  the  dwelling  of  the  sun,  to  be  daunted  by 
the  prospect  of  danger,  difficulty,  or  fatigue.  Bessy  and 
Victorine,  eluding  the  arms  that  would  have  assisted  their 
ascent,  leaped  from  rock  to  rock,  and  swung  from  bough  to 


256  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

bough,  in  all  the  joy  of  independence.  Their  spirits 
were  both  more  buoyant  from  the  pressure  that  had  been 
weighing  them  down.  What  if  their  dresses  did  get 
caught  by  the  bra.nbles,  and  the  sharp  points  of  the  rocks  ? 
They  were  not  afraid  of  their  being  torn,  and  went  laughing 
on.  But,  poor  Laura !  she  left  here  and  there  a  shred  of 
silk,  and  a  shred  of  lace  ;  her  shoes  slipped  down  at  the 
heel ;  her  lace  stockings  burst  into  large  holes,  and  she  was 
ready  to  cry  with  vexation.  Her  only  consolation  was  in 
clinging  to  Edmund's  arm,  whom  she  compelled  to  lift  her 
up  every  steep  rock,  and  over  every  narrow  chasm.  Frank 
laughed  at  her  dishevelled  appearance,  and  bid  her  admire 
the  superior  grace  and  activity  of  her  companions,  who 
paused  sometimes  in  their  airy  journey,  and  looked  back, 
with  glowing  cheeks  and  triumphant  eyes. 

"  How  far  is  it  to  the  cave  ?"  asked  Emma,  panting  for 
breath,  and  pale  from  fatigue.  "  I  am  afraid  I  can  go  no 
farther." 

"  It  is  but  a  little  distance,  on  the  right  hand,"  cried 
Edmund ;  "  keep  up  your  spirits  a  little  longer.  I  think 
I  hear  the  gurgling  of  the  spring  that  gushes  near." 

"  You  have  not  leaned  on  me,  as  you  ought,"  said  Mr. 
Selwyn.  "  I  could  have  carried  you  as  easily  as  I  could  a 
child." 

"  Oh,  no !"  cried  Emma,  the  colour  coming  back  to  her 
face.  "  I  have  taxed  you  too  much  already." 

But  before  she  had  time  to  resist  the  motion,  she  was 
cradled  lightly  on  his  left  arm  and  borne  along,  amidst  the 
shouts  of  Frank  and  the  merry  laughter  of  her  other  com- 
panions. Edmund  was  right — the  gurgling  waters  of  the 
spring  did  murmur  in  their  ears,  and  in  a  few  moments 
they  saw  the  mouth  of  the  moss-covered  cave — a  natural 
inn  kept  by  kind  nature  herself,  for  the  refreshment  of 
the  weary  traveller.  As  soon  as  Mr.  Selwyn  had  re- 
leased the  abashed  but  grateful  Emma,  he  went  kindly 
back  for  little  Estelle,  who  was  too  much  of  a  heroine  to 
complain;  but  whose  short,  hard  breathing,  and  scarlet 
cheeks,  showed  the  efforts  she  was  making  to  achieve  her 
own  ascent. 

"  I  cannot  go  one  step  farther,"  cried  Laura,  throwing 
herself  down  on  a  rock ;  "  my  shoes  are  both  burst  open, 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  257 

my  stockings  torn  off  my  feet,  and  my  frock  all  ripped  and 
dropping  to  pieces.  What  a  horrible  road  !  what  briars 
and  rocks  !  It  is  not  fit  for  a  Christian  to  travel.  I'm  sure 
I  wish  I  never  had  thought  of  this  old  mountain." 

"  Those  young  heathen  look  very  comfortable,"  said 
Mr.  Seiwyn  smiling,  and  looking  towards  Victorine  and 
Bessy,  who  had  thrown  their  bonnets  on  the  ground,  and, 
leaning  over  the  spring,  scooped  the  cold  water  in  the 
hollow  of  their  white  hands,  and  drank  it  with  laughing 
eagerness.  Their  plain,  white  linen  robes  fell  in  un- 
tattered  and  graceful  folds  to  the  edge  of  the  stream,  and 
the  contrast  of  their  beautiful  hair,  as  their  heads  touched 
each  other — golden  brown,  and  raven  black,  twining  and 
curling  together— could  not  be  more  strikingly  displayed. 

"Wait,"  cried  Estelle.  "I  have  a  silver  cup  in  my 
basket,  which  I  brought  on  purpose  to  drink  out  of;"  and 
lifting  the  mysterious  lid,  she  proudly  drew  it  forth,  and 
claimed  the  office  of  cup-bearer  to  the  rest.  They  all 
declared  that  the  nectar  of  Jupiter  was  not  half  as  refresh- 
ing as  that  cool  draught  of  water  from  the  silver  cup  ;  and 
that  his  blooming  Hebe,  could  not  be  named  in  the  same 
day  with  theirs.  They  admired  the  symmetrical  arch  of 
the  cave,  the  green  velvet  of  the  moss,  that  variegated  the 
gray  of  the  rock ;  the  sweet  sound  of  the  gushing  spring, 
and  wished  they  were  hermits,  that  they  might  live  there, 
free  from  the  cares  and  troubles  of  the  world.  There  was 
a  large  flat  rock  in  the  centre  of  the  cave,  which  looked 
like  a  natural  table,  and  broken  pieces  of  rock  scattered 
around,  which  answered  all  the  purposes  of  chairs.  Emma 
was  delighted  with  the  thoughts  of  remaining  there,  and 
produced  Ossian's  poems,  which  she  had  brought  on  pur- 
pose to  read  in  that  congenial  cave  ;  but  Laura  sat  gloomily 
on  a  rock,  her  feet  gathered  under  the  skirt  of  her  tattered 
dresp,  declaring  they  should  never  catch  her  on  a  moun- 
tain 7>gain,  as  long  as  she  lived  ;  she  was  afraid  too,  to  stay 
in  that  lonely  cave,  afraid  of  robbers,  snakes,  and  wild 
beasts.  Mr.  Seiwyn  offered  to  remain  and  guard  the 
cave,  but  Emma  would  not  listen  to  this  proposition,  as  she 
expected  a  servant  every  moment,  with  the  materials  for  a 
void  collation,  which  they  were  all  to  partake,  when  they 
descended,  and  that  servant  would  be  a  sufficient  protec- 


258  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

tion.  She  and  Laura  would  surprise  them  with  a  "  table 
spread  in  the  wilderness,"  and  they  wanted  no  witnesses 
to  the  mystery  of  preparation.  Estelle  lingered  a  moment, 
hesitating  whether  to  go  or  stay,  but  the  pride  of  looking 
through  a  telescope  at  length  decided  her,  and  committing 
her  basket,  with  a  long  whisper,  to  the  care  of  Emma,  she 
took  Mr.  Selwyn's  hand  and  recommenced  her  journey,  in 
high  spirits.  Frank  caught  Bessy's  arm,  before  she  could 
begin  her  bird-like  flight,  and  she  was  soon  obliged  to 
acknowledge,  that  she  could  not  have  dispensed  with  his 
aid,  so  steep  and  tangled  did  the  path  become.  Edmund 
and  Victorine  were  thus  inevitably  thrown  together,  though 
they  had  both  endeavoured  to  avoid  the  contact.  Victo- 
rine was  at  first  painfully  embarrased,  from  the  remem- 
brance of  her  last  conversation  with  Homer,  whose  stern, 
melancholy  countenance  seemed  bending  above,  reproach- 
ing her  for  her  innocent  enjoyment.  But  embarrassment 
was  soon  lost  in  excitement ;  sometimes,  when  she  thought 
she  had  secured  a  firm  footing  on  the  rocky  steps,  and  a 
firm  hold  of  the  slender  boughs  that  shaded  the  way-side, 
her  foot  would  slip,  and  the  bough  would  break,  and  had 
it  not  been  for  the  arm  of  Edmund,  she  would  have  fallen 
down  the  natural  ladder  they  were  ascending.  Some- 
times, they  rested  on  a  cradling  branch,  that  curved  over 
the  path,  and  Edmund  made  a  fan  of  the  leaves,  to  cool 
her  glowing  cheeks.  He  could  have  done  no  less  for  a 
sister,  and  yet  Victorine  knew,  if  Homer  should  unex- 
pectedly emerge  from  the  thick  woods  that  skirted  the 
path,  he  would  renew  the  accusation,  whose  remembrance 
still  thrilled  through  her  heart.  Perhaps,  too,  Edmund 
blamed  her  for  coming.  He  alone  had  been  silent,  when 
every  other  voice  urged  and  insisted.  She  began  to  blame 
herself,  for  exposing  herseif  to  his  blame,  and  impulsively 
she  gave  utterance  to  her  feelings. 

"I  fear  you  think  I  was  wrcag,  not  to  yield  to  Homer's 
wishes,"  said  she,  without  lifting  her  eyes.  "You  are 
always  so  ready  to  sacrifice  your  wishes  to  others." 

"  I  suspect  Homer  himself  would  have  regretted,  upon 
reflection,  such  an  unnecessary  sacrifice,"  replied  Ed- 
mund, after  a  slight  pause.  "  In  his  cooler  moments,  be  is 
always  just  and  generous." 


AUHT   PATTY'S   SCRAP-BAG. 


259 


"  Ah  1  but  his  cooler  moments" — come  so  seldom,  she 
was  about  to  add,  when  she  checked  the  expression. 
There  was  something  in  Edmund's  countenance,  that  for- 
bade all  conversation  on  this  subject ;  something  so  foreign 
to  its  usual  ingenuousness,  that  it  repelled  and  discon- 
certed her. 

"  Let  us  go  on,"  said  she  rising ;  "  I  am  rested  now, 
and  Estelle  is  calling  to  us,  from  Mr.  Selwyn's  shoulder, 
which  she  has  mounted  in  state ;  and  Bessy  and  Frank 
have  reached  the  top  of  the  ladder,  and  are  waving  their 
handkerchiefs  in  triumph." 

Victorine  and  Edmund  soon  joined  them,  and  from  the 
stepping  stones  on  which  they  stood,  the  road  rose  smoother 
and  more  inclined.  The  ascent  was  comparatively  easy — 
the  crooked  path  becoming  straight,  and  the  rough  one 
grassy. 

"  We  must  all  take  a  stone  in  our  hands,  before  we  leave 
this  rocky  ledge,"  cried  Edmund,  "to  add  to  the  pyramid 
on  the  top  of  the  mountain.  There  is  a  complete  Stone- 
henge  there.  Every  traveller  is  obliged  to  carry  one,  and 
to  engrave  his  name  as  a  memorial  of  his  presence." 

They  all  selected  those  which  had  the  fairest  and 
broadest  surface,  and,  thus  laden,  pressed  on  with  eager 
footsteps.  They  could  see  the  summit ;  they  had  promised 
not  to  look  back,  so  that  the  view  might  burst  upon  them, 
in  one  full  blaze  of  beauty,  and,  more  honourable  than 
Lot's  wife,  they  did  not  break  their  pledge. 

"  A  race !"  cried  Frank  ;  "  who  shall  have  the  first 
sight?" 

He  started  off,  with  the  speed  of  a  fiery  colt,  but  drop- 
ping the  stone,  and  pausing  to  pick  it  up,  Edmund  ran  by 
and  reached  the  goal,  at  the  same  moment  with  Mr.  Sel- 
wyn,  who  had  always  been  in  advance.  He  leaped  upon 
the  pyramidical  stones  and  waved  his  hat  in  the  air,  in 
token  of  victory.  As  he  stood  thus,  his  figure  defined  on 
the  clear,  blue  heavens,  his  fine  hair  waving  from  his 
brow,  his  cheeks  flushed  irom  exercise  and  excitement,  he 
might  have  been  compared  to  a  young  Apollo,  just  lighted 
on  the  "  heaven-kissing  hill." 

"  I,  too,  have  won  the  goal,"  cried  Frank,  giving  a  sud- 
den spring,  determined  to  surpass  Edmund,  and  reach  the 


260  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

top  of  the  mound,  at  one  leap.  But  not  quite  accomplish- 
ing his  exploit,  his  feet  descended  on  a  sliding  stone, 
which,  rolling  from  under  him,  brought  him  rolling  after  it 
to  the  ground,  a  monument  of  "  vaulting  ambition,  which 
o'erleaps  itself." 

"  Oh  !  Frank,  are  you  hurt  ?"  exclaimed  several  sweet 
voices,  in  a  breath. 

"  No !"  cried  he,  springing  up  as  suddenly  as  he  ha.d 
fallen,  and  shaking  the  dust  from  his  coat;  "I  only  mea- 
sured myself  for  your  amusement." 

Frank  had  every  reason  to  think  he  had  accomplished 
his  object,  by  the  peals  of  laughter  which  rang  through 
the  mountain  air,  in  which  he  joined  himself  most  heartily. 
But  mirth  was  soon  absorbed  in  silent,  intense  admiration. 
An  overpowering  sense  of  beauty  and  sublimity  soberized 
and  subdued  their  gay  spirits.  It  seemed  as  if  they  were 
the  only  dwellers  of  creation, — so  high  and  lone  they 
stood ;  so  far  and  still  stretched  the  world  around  them  ; 
so  deep  and  motionless  appeared  its  repose.  The  glad 
hum  of  life  ascended  not  to  them ;  even  the  smoke  of  the 
valley  melted  in  the  sun-beams,  before  it  reached  their 
height ;  and  the  trees,  though  they  bowed  in  the  breeze, 
only  presented  to  the  eye  a  surface  of  immovable  green. 
Every  thing  slept  below, — but  how  strong  and  excellent 
was  the  wakeful  principle  of  life  in  their  bosoms  !  How 
pure  and  invigorating  the  mountain  air  that  floated  around 
them,  free  from  the  exhalations  of  earth,  uncontaminated 
by  the  breath  of  man,  and  fresh  as  from  the  bovvers  of 
Eden !  No  sound  was  heard,  save  the  wind-organs  of  that 
mountain  cathedral,  which  stole  through  its  rocky  aisles 
and  winding  corridors,  swelling  as  with  the  breath  of  a 
thousand  invisible  minstrels. 

The  mingled  exclamations  of  "  Beautiful !  sublime ! 
glorious !"  succeeded  the  transport  of  mute  admiration. 
Bessy  alone  continued  silent.  She  could  not  express  her 
emotions ;  she  felt  too  near  heaven,  to  use  the  language  of 
earth.  The  divine  spell  of  poetry  was  upon  her,  and  her 
eyes  kindled  with  inspiration. 

"  Look  at  Bessy  !"  cried  Frank ;  "  she's  making  poetry, 
I  know.  That's  the  way  she  looks  when  she's  inspired." 

"  Well,  give  me  pencil  and  paper,"  said  she,  smiling. 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  261 

44  and  I  will  go  to  that  shaded  spot  yonder,  and  if  you  will 
promise  not  to  disturb  me,  I  will  try  to  do  homage,  in 
measured  verse,  to  the  lone  spirit  of  the  mountains." 

"  Here's  pencil  and  paper,"  answered  he  ;  "  but  I  know 
it  is  only  a  stratagem  to  be  alone.  Remember,  if  you  re- 
turn without  the  poetry,  all  the  thunders  of  Olympus  will 
reverberate  round  your  head." 

She  turned  away,  laughing,  towards  the  little  cove 
that  she  promised  should  be  converted  into  a  Parnas- 
sian grove,  and  the  lovely  muse  soon  vanished  from 
their  sight. 

"  Now,  please  let  me  look  through  the  telescope,"  said 
Estelle.  "  Aunt  Patty  will  get  tired,  sitting  so  long  at  the 
window." 

Mr.  Selwyn  took  a  cylinder  from  his  pocket,  and 
drawing  it  out  to  a  surprising  length,  considering  its 
original  size,  placed  it  in  the  direction  of  the  home- 
stead. 

"This  is  only  a  pocket  telescope,"  said  he,  "but  it 
is  a  very  powerful  one ;  and  if  you  look  very  steadily, 
perhaps  you  can  see  Aunt  Patty  take  a  pinch  of 
snuff." 

Estelle  shut  up  one  eye,  and  strained  the  other  open 
wider  than  she  had  ever  done  before ;  but  she  could 
only  see  a  glimmering  of  sunshine  through  a  round 
frame.  She  was  ashamed,  however,  to  acknowledge  a 
complete  failure,  and  said  she  saw  something  that  looked 
like  Aunt  Patty,  but  she  was  not  quite  certain.  Victo- 
rine's  steadier  gaze  beheld,  indeed,  the  white  walls 
they  had  so  recently  left,  gleaming  through  the  trees. 
She  held  the  glass,  and  sought  to  guide  Estelle's  waver- 
ing glance. 

"  What  do  you  see,  now  ?" 

"  I  see  Aunt  Patty's  profile." 

"  O  no :  that  is  a  chimni  y  you  are  looking  at.  You 
must  give  up  the  idea  of  si  eing  her,  from  this  distance , 
but  see  the  spires  of  the  churches ;  see  the  dome  of  the 
academy  ;  and  look  all  around, — how  many  beautiful  towns 
are  lying  at  our  feet !" 

Estelle  soon  became  tired  of  shutting  up  one  eye,  and 
straining  the  other  to  look  through  so  narrow  a  compass, 


262 


AUNT   PATTY'S   SCRAP-BAG. 


when  nature,  like  a  gorgeous  map,  was  unrolled  for  her 
gaze.  She  became  tired  of  standing,  too ;  and,  sitting 
down  on  the  pile  of  stones,  began  to  think  how  tiresome 
it  would  be  to  go  down  the  steep  places  they  had  climbed 
with  so  much  difficulty.  She  was  sorry  she  had  not  stayed 
Aviih  Emma  and  Laura,  in  the  moss-covered  cave,  by  the 
side  of  the  bubbling  spring.  She  was  sorry  she  had  left 
her  basket  behind, — a  piece  of  cake  would  taste  so  pleasant 
on  the  top  of  those  old,  gray  stones. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Frank?"  inquired  Edmund, 
approaching  him,  as  he  knelt  on  one  knee,  bending  over 
the  ground. 

"  I  am  only  immortalizing  your  names,  by  engraving 
them  on  the  rocks,"  replied  he.  "I  am  writing  them 
impromptu.  I  have  no  occasion  to  retire  to  a  grove,  to 
compose,  like  Bessy." 

Edmund  looked  over  his  shoulder  and  read,  laughingly, 
the  couplets  traced  on  the  stones  with  the  point  of  his 
penknife. 

"  Here  is  the  name  of  Bessy  Worth, 
The  fairest  nymph  of  all  the  earth  !" 

Well  done  for  Bessy.  Its  a  pity  she  hasn't  a  more-  p-aet.cal 
name. 

'  And  next  to  her  is  Victorine, 
A  la  Fran§oise, — our  gipsy  queen.' 

Why,  Frank,  you  must  be  inspired,  as  wel1  as  Bessy. 

'  Here  is  the  prudent,  wise  Estelta, 
With  chickens,  butter,  eggs  to  sell.'  " 

"  An't  you  ashamed  to  put  that  tLere,  Frank,  where  it 
will  last  for  ever?"  cried  Estelle,  angrily;  "and  where 
everybody  can  see  it,  as  long  as  I  Jive  ?" 

"  Never  mind,  Estelle,"  said  Edmund ;  "  hear  what  tie 
says  of  himself — 

'  The  immortal  name  of  Francis  Wharton, — 
The  greatest  poet  ever  thought  on."  " 

"  You  made  that  yourself,  as  you  read,  Edmund ;  but  it 
is  worthy  to  be  written  on  everlasting  tablets.  Your  own 
needs  no  epithet  to  speak  its  worth ;  and  I  dare  not  jest 
with  the  revered  name  of  Selwyn.  Let  us  go  and  peep  at 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  263 

Bessy  in  her  Parnassian  grove,  and  see  whether  the  muses 
are  gathered  round  her." 

Bessy  had  wandered  from  the  rest,  not  so  much  to 
write,  as  to  think  and  commune  with  her  own  glowing 
thoughts.  The  remembrance  of  Vivian  rose  painfully 
before  her,  in  view  of  such  magnificent  scenery, — scenery 
which  a  pencil  like  his,  alone,  coujd  delineate.  She  re- 
called the  eloquence,  the  passion  of  his  language  ;  the  soul 
that  flushed  from  his  shifting  glances  ;  and  sighed  to  think 
how  dull  and  common-place  every  other  being  seemed  in 
comparison.  "  I  will  not  dwell  on  recollections  like  these," 
said  she  to  herself,  sitting  down  upon  a  rock,  and  spreading 
the  paper  upon  her  knee.  "  I  will  yield  myself  to  the 
holy  influences  of  nature,  who  smiles  so  kindly  on  her 
wayward  child." 

The  holy  influences  of  nature,  thus  wooed,  breathed  or 
the  imagination  of  Bessy ;  and,  with  the  look  of  a  young 
sibyl,  she  began  her  poetical  tribute  to  the  genius  of  the 
mountain.  Thus  flowed  the  invocation  : — 

"  Beautiful  mountain !  like  an  eastern  king 

Thou  wear'st  thy  diadem  of  burning  gold, 
While  the  rich  hues  the  shifting  sun- beams  fling 
In  purple  royalty,  are  round  thee  roll'd. 

"  And  thou  art  beautiful,  when  dark-brow'd  night 

Comes,  with  her  silver  chandelier,  to  throw 
A  starry  mantle  o'er  thee  : — Oh  !  how  bright, 
Through  the  soft  gloom  its  folds  of  glory  flow  ! 

"  Most  lovely  thou  !  when,  kneeling  at  thy  feet, 

Half  veil'd  in  mist,  the  blushing  morn  is  seen; 
When  wakening  gales  thy  regal  presence  greet, 
And  dewy  flowers  from  their  green  couches  lean. 

"  Beautiful  mountain !  image  of  the  soul, 

Rising,  serene,  above  the  clouds  of  time  ; 
Girdled  with  light,  though  clouds  beneath  it  roll, 
Looking  to  heaven,  immovable,  sublime. 

"  The  sun-beams  love  thee  !  for  their  brightest  ray, 

At  morn  and  even,  linger  on  thy  brow , 
The  night-dews  love  thee ! — nature's  pearls,  they  lay, 
Melting,  in  smiles,  on  every  forest  bough. 

"  Beautiful  mountain ! " 

Bessy  paused,  and  looked  upward;  the  warmth,  the 
enthusiasm  of  genius  glowed  on  her  face.  She  pushed 


264 


AUNT  PATTY'S    SCRAP-BAG. 


back  the  tresses  that  clustered  too  thickly  ovej  ner  brow, 
and  repeated,  aloud,  "Beautiful  mountain!"  A  soft,  low 
sigh  seemed  to  come,  like  the  echo  of  her  words.  She 
started,  and  the  pencil  dropped  from  her  hand.  Was  it  a 
dream  of  the  imagination,  or  a  figure  of  flesh  and  blood, 
that  stood  leaning  against  a  rock,  not  far  from  the  spot 
where  she  was  seated  ?  One  moment  she  gazed  in  wild 
surprise ;  then,  springing  forward,  forgot  every  thing  in 
the  rapture  of  that  sudden  recognition.  "Vivian!" — 
"  Bessy !" — The  next  moment  she  was  in  the  arms  of 
Vivian,  and  their  hearts,  lately  sundered,  throbbing  against 
each  other,  as  if  they  were  never  again  to  separate.  Per- 
haps, had  they  met  thus  suddenly  in  a  house  "made  with 
hands,"  the  formalities  of  life  would  have  kept  them  apart, 
and  they  would  have  passed  each  other  coldly  and  silently. 
But  here,  in  the  midst  of  the  loneliness,  and  grandeur,  and 
freedom  of  nature,  the  artificial  restraints  of  society  were 
forgotten,  and  soul  answered  soul  as  God  created  them  to 
do.  This  celestial  communion,  however,  was  of  short 
duration.  Bessy  was  brought  back,  only  too  soon,  to  the 
hard  realities  of  life. 

"  Bessy,  Bessy,  have  you  finished  your  poetry  ?"  ex- 
claimed the  laughing  voice  of  Frank  ;  and  headed  by  the 
speaker,  the  whole  party  emerged  from  the  shade  of  the 
rocks  and  shrubs,  and  stood  rooted  with  astonishment  at 
the  sight  of  Vivian  and  Bessy  hand  in  hand,  still  as  two 
statues,  carved  out  of  the  rock  on  which  they  leaned. 
Frank  had  broken  the  spell.  Vivian  drew  away  his  hand 
with  a  sudden  motion.  The  impassioned  expression  of 
his  countenance  changed  ;  the  fire  of  his  eyes  was  extin- 
guished in  the  coldness  of  pride. 

"  Have  you  dropped  from  the  clouds,  Vivian  ?"  said 
Mr.  Selwyn,  who  rejoiced  in  the  re-appearance  of  his 
young  friend,  and  whose  suspicions  as  to  the  cause  of  his 
departure  were  now  fully  confirmed.  "  We  have  all  reasou 
to  complain  of  your  neglect,  but  if  you  will  promise  amend- 
ment for  the  future,  we  will  try  to  get  you  absolution  fa* 
the  past." 

"Have  you  been  on  the  mountain,  all  this  time,  Mr. 
Vivian  ?"  asked  Estelle.  "  Oh !  I  know  you  have  been 
living  in  the  cave,  where  Emma  is  now." 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  265 

"I  have  not  quite  turned  hermit  yet,"  answered  Vivian, 
with  an  involuntary  smile ;  "  though  I  acknowledge  I 
slept  last  night  in  the  cave.  I  have  been  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  mountain,  for  several  days,"  added  he, 
turning  to  Mr.  Selwyn,  "where  I  have  been  detained  by 
indisposition.  I  could  not  be  resigned  to  leave  the  country, 
without  witnessing  a  prospect,  of  which  I  have  heard  so 
much.  I  was  too  weary  to  return  last  night,  and  making 
myself  a  pillow  of  moss,  I  reclined  very  comfortably  on  my 
bed  of  rock." 

"  Leave  the  country  !"  exclaimed  Edmund.  "  I  thought 
you  intended  to  remain,  till  Mr.  Selwyn  and  myself  made 
our  second  tour.  I  have  been  thinking,  lately,  of  getting 
Mr.  Selwyn  to  hasten  our  departure,  or  to  allow  me  to  go 
oefore  him,  as  his  avant-courier" 

"You,  Edmund!"  cried  Bessy ;  "you,  so  anxious  to 
leave  us  ?  How  unkind  !"  She  felt  that  another  was  un- 
kind too,  but  her  wounded  spirit  refused  to  give  utterance 
to  the  thought. 

"  You  too,  Edmund  !"  echoed  the  heart  of  Victorine ; 
but  she  spoke  not.  The  idea  that  he  was  about  to  banish 
himself,  for  Homer's  sake,  took  possession  of  her  mind, 
and  she  wished  she  had  never  left  the  sunny  shores  of 
France. 

"You,  Edmund !"  repeated  Mr.  Selwyn,  pressing  his 
hand,  with  a  warmth  of  which  he  was  net  aware.  He 
read  deeply  the  mysteries  of  the  human  heart,  and  he  had 
lately  watched  him  with  intense  anxiety.  He  saw  that  his 
prophecies  were  being  fulfilled,  and  that  if  Edmund  re- 
mained, a  web  of  inextricable  misery  would  be  woven 
around  him.  "  You  are  right,  my  boy,"  continued  he : 
"and  you  have  reminded  me  of  my  duty.  If  you,  when 
manhood  is  only  in  its  morn,  grudge  a  few  hours  of  in- 
activity, surely  I,  who  have  reached  its  meridian,  should 
hoard  my  moments  better.  I  have  devoted  myself  to  the 
service  of  my  country;  you  to  mine, — both,  I  trust,  to  the 
service  of  God.  In  a  few  years  you  will  be  established  in 
professional  life  ;  I  shall  sigh  for  retirement  and  rest.  I 
am  grateful  to  my  youthful  monitor — " 

The  animated  approbation  of  Mr.  Selwyn's  manner,  the 
cordial  pressure  of  his  hand,  told  Edmund  that  his  motives 


266  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG, 

were  understood  and  appreciated,  and  the  gratitude  he 
had  before  felt,  seemed  light  to  that  which  now  filled 
his  bosom. 

"Isn't  it  time  to  go  back  to  the  cave?"  asked  the 
wear)'-,  hungry  Estelle.  "  Emma  and  Laura  will  be  so 
tired  waiting  for  us." 

"  You  will  come  with  us,  Vivian,"  said  Edmund. 

"  Vivian  will  follow  with  me,"  cried  Frank.     "  I  w' 
to  speak  with  him  a  few  moments,  if  he  does  not  refuse 
me  the  honour." 

Bessy  turned  very  pale,  and  looked  at  them  both  in 
alarm. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say,"  added  Frank,  "  which  I  am 
not  willing  the  whole  world  should  hear :  yet,  from  motives 
of  delicacy,  I  should  prefer,  for  a  few  moments,  his  pri- 
vate ear." 

There  was  a  serious  dignity  in  Frank's  manner,  which 
became  him  well  from  its  novelty,  and  even  Vivian  was 
not  proof  against  its  influence. 

"  I  wished  to  speak  to  you,"  said  Frank,  as  soon  as 
they  were  alone,  "  because  I  thought  a  few  words  from 
me  might  explain  a  very  unhappy  misunderstanding. 
We  parted  in  anger,  and  I  cannot  deceive  you  by  saying 
I  like  you  now ;  that,  perhaps,  I  shall  never  be  able  to  do. 
But  I  do  not  want  to  make  you  unhappy,  without  a  cause. 
You  look  upon  me  as  a  rival ;  I  have  tried  to  rival  you, 
but  in  vain ;  I  thought  I  had  a  prior  claim  to  yours,  but  I 
am  mistaken.  I  am  convinced  that  Bessy  can  never  be 
more  to  me  than  a  friend.  If  she  is  willing  to  be  more  to 
you,  I  will  not  stand  as  a  stumbling-block,  in  the  way  to 
her  happiness  or  yours," 

There  was  a  manly  truthfulness  in  Frank's  looks  and 
manner,  that  was  perfectly  irresistible. 

"  I  must,  I  do  believe  you,"  cried  Vivian,  grasping  his 
hand  with  excessive  emotion  ;  "  but  they  told  me,  that  you 
had  loved  each  other  from  childhood ;  that  you  had  been 
betrothed  for  years." 

"Nothing  but  a  mischievous  story,  to  sport  with  your 
credulity,"  cried  Frank.  "  I  think  I  know  its  source,  and 
blush  for  it.  I  suspected,  at  the  time,  the  cause  of  your 
flight,  but  I  was  selfish  enough  to  be  willing  to  profit  by 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  267 

it.  I  tried  to  take  an  ungenerous  advantage,  and  have 
been  served  as  I  ought.  But  I  did  not  then  know  how 
deeply  the  affections  of  both  were  engaged.  Thank 
heaven  !  I  have  not  discovered  it  too  late." 

Frank  was  not  given  to  heroics,  but  he  felt  a  strange 
choking  in  the  throat,  and  fulness  of  the  heart,  when  Vi 
vian  wrung  his  hand,  then  threw  his  arm  over  his  shoul- 
der, and  actually  wept  upon  his  breast. 

"  Do  not  despise  me  for  my  weakness,"  said  he  ;  "I 
can  bear  grief,  agony,  and  despair,  and  have  borne  it  with- 
out a  tear,  but  joy  so  sudden  completely  anmans  me. 
Oh  !  you  do  not  know  what  wretchedness  I  hi.ve  suffered ; 
what  wild,  desperate  plans  I  have  formed,  vhile  flying 
from  place  to  place,  seeking  in  vain  to  escape  from 
myself;  and  now  hope,  joy,  ambition,  are  ail  new- 
born within  me — created  again  by  you.  You,  so  generous, 
go  disinterested  !  What  can  1  say  or  do,  to  prove  my  grati- 
tude ?" 

"Nothing!"  replied  Frank,  wiping  the  moisture  from 
his  eyes  and  brow;  "it  is  excessively  warm  on  this  moun- 
tain. I  said  I  never  should  like  you,  but  I  begin  to  do  it 
already.  If  we  are  not  friends  before  long,  it  will  be  your 
own  fault.  Come,  let  us  follow  our  companions,  for  I  know 
Bessy's  little  heart  is  palpitating  with  a  thousand  fears." 

When  the  young  men  approached  arm  in  arm,  Frank's 
face,  scarcely  less  irradiated  than  Vivian's,  Bessy  could 
scarcely  repress  the  grateful  thanksgiving  that  rose  to  her 
lips.  Nothing  had  been  explained  to  her,  yet  she  knew 
that  all  was  right,  and  that  Vivian  was  restored  to  her  once 
more. 

"  Will  you  accompany  us  now,  Vivian  ?"  said  Mr.  Sel- 
yvyn,  extending  his  hand  with  a  cordial  smile. 

"  If  you  will  receive  such  an  ungrateful  vagrant  among 
you,"  answered  he,  his  face  reddening,  even  to  his  tem- 
ples. 

"  I  see  no  one  who  looks  discouragingly  upon  you,  but 
Bessy.  You  had  better  try  to  propitiate  her  on  our  way  to 
the  cave,  or  perhaps  you  will  be  excluded  from  its  entrance, 
and  after  fasting  all  night,  I  should  think  yoc  would 
have  no  objection  to  share  t"ie  feast,  which  I  unu*:r And 
the  good  fairies  are  preparing  for  us." 


268  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

While  he  was  speaking,  Mr.  Selwyn  took  Estelle's 
willing  hand,  and  led  the  way  to  the  downward  path. 

"I  believe  I  will  take  compassion  on  you,  Frank,"  said 
Victorine,  laughing  and  blushing ;  "  since  Vivian  has  stolen 
Bessy  from  you.  I  am  afraid  to  let  you  go  down  the 
mountain  alone,  lest  you  should  roll  to  the  bottom.  I  will 
assist  Edmund's  noble  efforts,"  added  she,  to  herself;  "he 
is  the  guardian  of  his  brother's  happiness,  and  I  will  show 
him  how  sacred  I  deem  the  trust." 

Edmund  lingered  behind  the  rest,  absorbed  in  such  deep 
reflections,  that  he  started  with  astonishment,  when  he 
found  himself  at  the  mouth  of  the  cave.  The  tales  of  the 
Arabian  genii  seemed  realized,  for  the  rude  cave  was  now 
transformed  into  an  hospitable-looking  dining-room,  and  the 
table  of  rock,  first  covered  with  a  snowy  cloth,  was  over- 
spread with  the  comforts  and  luxuries  of  the  homestead. 
Green  boughs  decked  the  corners,  green  leaves  decorated 
the  dishes,  and  Emma  and  Laura  had  garlands  of  green 
around  their  brows.  The  fairies,  too,  had  been  at  work  on 
Laura's  dress,  for  the  rips  and  tatters  were  mended  so 
neatly,  that  one  would  hardly  have  recognised  her  for  the 
dishevelled,  slatternly  maiden,  who  was  left  sulking  there 
in  the  morning.  Mr.  Selwyn  suspected  that  Emma  was 
the  presiding  fairy,  for  she  had  a  thimble  on  her  finger, 
and'  her  work-bag  lay  upon  a  rock.  Laura  scarcely  re- 
frained from  screaming  at  the  sight  of  Vivian,  who  answer- 
ed her  embarrassed  greeting  with  a  cold  and  distant  bow. 
She  saw  at  one  glance,  that  there  was  a  reconciliation  be- 
tween him  and  Bessy,  and  that  her  own  duplicity  must  be 
discovered.  Frank,  too,  looked  coldly  on  her,  and  she 
imagined  that  every  one  watched  her  with  a  suspicious 
eye.  She  began  to  feel  that  the  portion  of  the  false  one 
must  be  shame. 

Bessy  and  Estelle  were  permitted  to  wait  upon  the  table, 
as  Emma  and  Laura  had  prepared  it.  Estelle  brought  the 
water  from  the  spring  in  her  silver  cup,  and  Bessy,  whose 
heart  felt  as  light  as  the  cygnet's  down,  flitted  round  the 
board,  making  the  cavern  radiant  with  her  smiles. 

"Why  do  you  not  eat,  Victorine?"  said  Emma.  "The 
lady  of  the  grotto  will  be  angry,  if  you  slight  her  dain- 
ties." 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG,  269 

"  Oh  1  I've  been  eating  of  fairy-bower  fruit,  and  drink- 
ing of  fairy-well  water,  and  I  cannot  partake  of  grosser 
food,"  replied  she. 

"I  am  afraid  Victorine  will  make  but  a  poor  traveller," 
said  Mr.  Selwyn  ;  "  she  looks  pale  and  wearied." 

"  She's  thinking  of  the  thunder-storm  that  waits  her  at 
home,"  whispered  Laura  to  Emma,  "and  I  suspect  Ed- 
mund is,  too ;  for  he  looks  as  if  he  were  a  hundred  miles  off. 
Does  your  head  ache,  Edmund?"  asked  she,  aloud.  "I 
think  you  make  as  poor  a  traveller  as  Victorine." 

"I  am  sorry  if  I've  established  such  a  character," 
replied  he,  "  since  I  shall  be  a  wayfaring  man  so 
soon." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Edmund  ?"  asked  Emma.  "  What 
pilgrimage  are  you  meditating  ?" 

"  I  am  going  to  take  him  with  me  once  moro,"  sai./  Mr. 
Selwyn;  "and  we  have  concluded,  on  the  mountain'  top, 
that  we  have  been  resting  long  enough  for  refreshment  by 
the  well-springs  of  social  life." 

Tears  gathered  into  Emma's  eyes.  "  What  a  blank  we 
shall  feel,  when  you  are  gone,"  said  she  ;  "  we  have  been 
forgetting  that  life  cannot  always  be  as  happy  as  it  is 
now." 

"  Supposing  you  and  Bessy  become  our  fellow-tra- 
vellers," cried  Mr.  Selwyn;  "we  could  have  a  delightful 
party,  and  so  domestic ;  it  would  seem  like  carrying  the 
homestead  away  with  us.  I  promised  Bessy,  two  years 
ago,  that  she  should  breathe  the  map-ring  air  of  a  classic 
clime.  I  suspect  her  admiration  for  genius  and  the  fine 
arts  is  not  diminished,  unless  she  feels  an  unconquerable 
aversion  to  some  of  their  most  gifted  devotees." 

"Oh!  I'm  the  worst  traveller  in  the  world,"  cried 
Emma,  shrinking  from  the  idea  of  crossing  the  broad, 
magnificent  Atlantic.  "My  journey  to  the  south  almost 
appalled  me,  though  I  have  half-promised  Uncle  Wood- 
ville  to  return  and  spend  the  winter  months  in  his 
family." 

"  I  think  you  must  include  me  in  your  number  of 
favoured  ones,"  said  Victorine.  "  I  have  been  yearning 
lately  to  behold  once  more  my  transatlantic  home." 

"  But  Homer !"  exclaimed  Edmund,  suddenly. 


270  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

"Homer  could  fit  up  this  cave  for  a  dwelling-place," 
replied  Victorine,  colouring ;  "he  would  make  the  best  her- 
mit in  the  world." 

"  He  would,  want  a  fair  spirit  to  be  his  minister,"  said 
Mr.  Selwyn ;  "  then,  I  doubt  not,  the  solitude  of  the  moun- 
tain would  be  Elysium  to  him." 

"I  want  to  go  to  Europe,"  exclaimed  Estelle.  "I  want 
to  see  all  the  fine  things  Edmund  has  told  me  of.  Wouldn't 
there  be  room  for  me  in  the  ship  ?  Edmund  says  a  big 
ship  is  like  a  little  city." 

"  Would  you  leave  your  mother,  Estelle  ?" 

"  Couldn't  we  take  her,  too  ?" 

"And  Aunt  Patty?" 

"Ah  !  poor  Aunt  Patty — she  couldn't  take  such  a  long 
journey.  She's  lame  now,  and  old.  She  would  miss  me 
too  much.  No !  I  couldn't  leave  her  behind." 

•«  Verily,  my  child,  thou  art  a  miracle  of  constancy," 
said  Mr.  Selwyn  ;  "  and  thou  shalt  have  thy  reward.  I 
hope  some  older  damsels  will  imitate  thy  fidelity ;  and  not 
allow  their  affection  to  be  chilled  or  diminished  by  the  in- 
firmities of  nature.  If  there  is  a  sight  which  angels,  and 
the  father  of  angels,  love,  it  must  be  that  of  innocent  child- 
hood, winding  itself,  like  a  blooming  garland,  round  the 
faded  brow  and  chill  bosom  of  age." 

"  He  means  a  kind  rebuke  to  me,"  thought  Victorine, 
"  but  he  knows  not  half  the  weight  that  is  pressing  my 
spirits  down.  Oh !  my  soul  is  exceeding  sorrowful,  and, 
whichever  way  I  turn,  I  see  darkness,  and  doubt  and 
misery.  I  could  bear  wretchedness  myself,  but  to  be  the 
cause  of  wretchedness  to  others  is  more  than  I  can  endure 
with  resignation." 

The  trouble  of  Victorine's  mind  was  depicted  on  a  coun 
tenance  which  mirrored,  but  too  faithfully,  every  emotion 
of  her  soul.  When  the  signal  for  their  departure  was  given, 
she  became  still  more  agitated.  She  dreaded  the  scene  thai 
awaited  her  return:  the  jealous  strife,  the  withering  sar- 
casm, and  the  maddening  accusation.  She  remembered  the 
harrowing  interview  in  the  arbour,  when  she  trembled 
before  the  might  of  her  own  roused  passions,  when  she 
first  felt  her  full  powers  as  a  woman — born  to  love,  but  to 
resist;  capable  of  sacrifice,  death,  even  martyrdom,  pro- 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  271 

vided  they  were  not  exacted  by  oppression,  or  claimed  as  a 
just  tribute,  by  an  arbitrary  will ;  but  ready,  also,  to  meet 
sacrifices,  and  death,  and  martyrdom,  sooner  than  submit  a 
willing  subject  to  an  iron  rule.  While  the  rest  were  ga- 
thering bonnet  and  scarf,  basket  and  book  ;  running  to  dip 
their  cup,  for  the  last  time,  in  the  gush  of  the  fountain,  or 
pulling  the  moss-wreaths  from  the  silver-gray  rocks, 
Victorine  sat  absorbed  in  a  reverie  so  deep,  she  heeded 
not  the  bustle  of  preparation,  or  the  sound  of  departing 
footsteps. 

"Good-by,  Victorine,"  cried  Estelle,  turning  back  her 
laughing  face,  "  you  may  have  the  fragments  of  the  feast 
for  supper." 

"  Good-by,  Victorine,"  said  Frank,  "  I  see  you  are  going 
to  remain,  to  be  the  hermit's  fair  ministrant.  We'll  send 
him  to  his  cell." 

Victorine  scarcely  moved,  so  strong  was  the  spell  that 
mastered  her. 

"Victorine,"  exclaimed  Edmund,  in  a  low  voice,  "the 
shadows  are  beginning  to  lengthen." 

She  started  quickly,  and  laughed  at  her  abstraction.  "  I 
have  been  thinking  of  a  name  for  this  beautiful  cave,"  said 
she  ;  "  cannot  you  assist  me  ?  And  yet,"  added  she,  as 
they  left  the  spot  together,  and  followed  the  steps  of  their 
companions,  "I  had  other  and  deeper  subjects  of  meditation. 
I  have  been  thinking  of  many,  many  things ;  and,  among 
others,  of  your  wish  to  hasten  again  from  home.  I  have 
been  so  accustomed  to  speak  impulsively,  to  appeal  to  you 
as  a  brother,  and  a  friend,  I  cannot  endure  this  chilling  re- 
serve existing  between  us.  Lt£  me,  during  this  last  oppor- 
tunity that  may  ever  offer,  break  down  the  wall  of  ice, 
which  circumstances  have  built  up,  and  which  is  rising 
higher  and  higher,  and  address  you  as  I  could  have  done 
two  years  ago." 

"  No,  no,  Victorine,"  answered  he,  with  a  vehemence  of 
manner  so  unusual  that  she  would  gladly  have  recalled  the 
words  that  excited  it,  "  better  a  thousand  times  be  as  wo 
are,  cold,  reserved,  and  apparently  estranged,  than  attempt 
to  renew  an  intimacy,  which  would  only  produce  the  most 
fatal  results.  Would  to  heaven  we  could  be  as  we  were 
two  years  ago !" 


272 


AUNT   PATTY  S  SCRAP-BAG. 


"  Oh,  how  difficult  it  is  to  be  understood  !"  cried  she, 
holding  back  the  tears,  that  were  ready  to  gush  from  her 
eyes — "  how  difficult  it  is  to  know  how  to  act  in  a  situation 
like  mine  !  I  wanted  to  tell  you — and  I  claim  this  act  of 
truth  as  a  right  which  no  human  being  has  the  power  to 
wrest  from  me — that  if  I  am  so  unhappy  as  to  drive  you 
from  the  home  where  you  are  so  dearly  loved,  if  it  is  out 
of  regard  to  your  brother's  jealous  fears,  you  are  anxious  to 
banish  yourself,  I  will  not  allow  such  a  sacrifice.  I  am  re- 
solved to  depart  myself,  that  the  dwelling  of  my  benefactress 
may  recover  the  peace  and  happiness  I  have  been  the  means 
of  destroying.  I  have  a  step-father  in  France,  who  has  not 
forgotten  the  wild  little  savage  he  left  behind.  Your  mo- 
ther has  refined  that  savage  child.  I  will  not  make  her 
wretched." 

"  Do  you  think  Homer  would  suffer  you  to  depart  ?"  cried 
Edmund,  pausing  under  the  shade  of  an  oak,  that  bowed  over 
the  path.  "Do  you  think  I  could  suffer  you  to  do  it  ?  My 
mother  and  sisters,  would  they  be  willing  to  resign  you  i 
You  have  spoken  of  my  unhappy  brother.  We  all  know 
the  malady  which  has  followed  him  from  the  cradle  to  man- 
hood, and  will  probably  pursue  him  to  his  grave.  Long 
before  he  knew  or  loved  you,  I  was  the  object  of  his  intense 
jealousy — and  my  absence,  not  yours,  is  necessary  to  his 
tranquillity.  No — Victorine,  you  have  wrung  the  confes- 
sion from  me,  and  you  may  tremble  for  the  consequences. 
It  is  for  my  sake,  not  yours,  that  I  would  fly  ;  that  I  would 
build  up  a  wall  of  separation  between  us,  high  as  the  hea- 
vens, and  lasting  as  life.  I  cannot  live  near  you  any  longer 
and  be  true  to  the  vow  that  I've  made  my  brother.  True 
did  I  say  ? — as  there's  an  avenging  Providence,  I  feel  that 
I've  broken  it  already.  Victorine,  why  did  you  force  this 
from  me  ?  You  had  robbed  me  of  my  happiness,  and  now 
you  have  wrested  from  me  all  I  have  left,  my  integrity." 

Recoiling  from  the  hand  that  clasped  his  arm,  he  leaned 
heavily  against  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  and  covered  his  brow 
with  his  hands.  Victorine  felt  as  if  she  stood  on  the  verge 
of  a  precipice,  and  that  an  abyss  was  yawning  beneath  her 
feet.  On  the  one  side  she  saw  the  stern,  commanding 
Homer,  threatening  her  with  his  malediction ;  on  the  other, 
the  pale,  agitated,  remorseful  Edmund,  upbraiding  her  for 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  273 

his  despair.  Previously  excited  by  the  conflicts  of  the  day, 
fatigued  by  the  walk,  and  faint  from  fasting,  her  brain  was 
in  such  a  fevered  state,  that  her  sensations  bordered  on 
frenzy.  She  had  no  power  to  control  them,  but  rushing 
down  the  path,  with  the  speed  of  lightning,  she  caught  hold 
of  Mr.  Selwyn's  arm,  who  was  fortunately  behind  the  rest, 
having  committed  Estelle  to  the  care  of  Frank,  and  ex- 
claimed in  a  strange,  husky  voice,  '-Go  to  Edmund! — go 
to  Edmund !" 

"  Good  heavens !"  cried  he,  excessively  alarmed. 
«'  What  is  the  matter  ?  Where  is  he  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  !"  cried  she,  putting  her  hand  to  her 
head — something1  has  happened,  but  don't  tell  Homer ; 
oh,  pray,  don't  tell  him  !" 

"Edmund!  what  ',s  the  meaning  of  this?"  cried  Mr. 
Selwyn ;  for  Edmund,  raised  from  his  paroxysm  of  remorse, 
had  pursued,  in  terror,  the  flying  steps  of  Victorine,  and 
now  stood,  pale  as  ashes,  before  him. 

"  It  means,  that  I  am  unworthy  to  be  trusted,"  answered 
he;  "I  know  not  what  I  have  said,  but  I  have  uttered 
words  that  never  can  be  forgotten.  Let  me  go,  sir;  I 
must  be  alone." 

"  Not  with  such  a  face  as  that,"  said  Mr.  Selwyn,  in  a 
severe  tone.  ''Would  you  carry  confusion  and  terror  to 
yon  happy  group  ?  Would  you  make  your  mother's  heart 
bleed,  by  a  scene  of  family  discord?  Calm  yourself, 
impetuous  boy!  and  let  reason  resume  its  empire.  I've 
been  dreading  something  like  this  ;  and  yet  I  had  such  a 
reliance  on  your  honour  and  self-control,  I  believed  that 
you  might  be  put  in  the  very  furnace  of  temptation, 
without  having  your  garments  scorched.  You  blush,  Ed- 
mund,— you  turn  away  your  head ;  and,  you,  Victorine, 
you  are  weeping, — this  excitement  will  subside  with  your 
tears.  You  must  both  make  a  strong  effort  to  subdue 
your  emotions,  or,  I  shudder  at  what  the  consequence  may 
be.  You  aje  both  young,  my  children,"  added  he,  in  a 
softened  voice,  and  affectionately  taking  the  hand  of  each ; 
"  and  in  youth  the  passions  are  strong ;  wrestle  with  them 
now,  as  Jacob  did  with  the  angel,  in  the  strength  of  the 
Lord  God,  and  you  will  corne  off"  conquerors  ;  yield  to  them, 
and  you  will  be  miserable,  degraded  slaves  through  life." 
18 


274  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG, 

«  My  imprudence  has  been  the  cause  of  all,"  said  Victo- 
rine,  whose  excitement,  as  Mr.  Selwyn  had  foretold,  had 
melted  away  in  tears.  "  Edmund  is  not  to  blame.  I  did 
not  know  what  I  was  doing,  when  I  ran  to  you.  How 
weak,  how  childish  I  have  been  !" 

"  Think  not  of  the  past,"  said  Mr.  Selwyn,  earnestly ; 
"  but  guard  yourselves  for  the  future.  See !  Frank  is 
coming  back,  to  learn  the  cause  of  our  delay.  Remember, 
that  the  eyes  of  many  are  upon  you.  Remember,  an  eye 
more  keen  and  watchful  than  all,  is  waiting  your  return. 
Edmund,  my  son,  I  have  seen  your  struggles,  and  gloried 
in  your  self-conquest.  One  moment  of  human  weakness 
does  not  tarnish  the  laurels  you  have  won.  I  knoAv,  now, 
the  strength  of  your  temptations,  and,  if  resisted  hence- 
forth, my  confidence,  esteem,  and  love  shall  be  doubled, 
instead  of  diminished." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  said  Frank,  fanning  himself 
with  his  hat ;  for  it  was  no  light  exercise  to  toil  back 
the  steep  ascent.  "We  are  all  waiting  on  the  platform. 
Are  you  ill,  Victorine  ?  The  exertion  has  been  too  much 
for  you." 

*'  Yes !"  said  Mr.  Selwyn,  "  Victorine  has  been  over- 
come by  fatigue.  Her  fairy-food  has  not  sustained  her  for 
the  extra  call  upon  her  strength,  which  has  been  made. 
Go,  Frank,  and  have  every  thing  in  readiness.  I  will 
take  Victorine  in  my  landau,  and  Vivian  can  occupy  her 
seat,  you  know.  I  am  a  kind  of  common  father,  and  if  one 
of  my  children  require  peculiar  care,  I  must  take  them 
under  my  charge." 

"  How  kind  you  are !"  exclaimed  Victorine,  ready  to 
fall  at  Mr.  Selwyn's  feet,  in  her  gratitude  and  humility. 
She  felt  overwhelmed  with  shame,  at  the  expressions  of 
sympathy  and  anxiety  uttered  by  her  young  friends,  who 
soon  gathered  round  her. 

"  I  knew  you  would  be  sick,"  cried  Estelle,  "  for  you 
would  not  eat  nor  drink,  and  your  eyes  looked  so  heavy." 

"  How  shockingly  you  look !"  said  Laura ;  "  your  eyes 
are  so  red,  and  your  cheeks  so  flushed ! — you  must  have 
an  inflammation  of  the  brain.  You  are  certainly  sun- 
struck." 

Victorine  rejoiced  when  she  found  herself  in  the  car- 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  275 

riage,  safe  from  the  scrutiny  of  Laura,  and  side  by  siue 
with  the  gentle  and  affectionate  Emma.  But  every 
motion  of  the  carriage  brought  her  nearer  home,  and 
unknown  trials  awaited  her  there.  Just  as  they  reached 

the  foot  of  the  mountain   a  horseman  was  seen  gallopin^ 

° 
towards  them. 

"  Look !  there's  Homer,"  exclaimed  Estelle ;  "  I  know 
him  by  his  black  horse :  it's  all  covered  with  foam." 

"Has  any  thing  happened  at  home,  Homer?"  asked 
Enr.xia,  bending  anxiously  forward,  while  Victorine  drew 
bacic,  shrinking  from  the  glance,  which,  she  saw,  was  still 
dark  and  lowering. 

"No,"  replied  he,  turning  his  horse  and  riding  by  the 
side  of  the  carriage ;  "  but  you  were  so  late,  I  came,  on 
my  return,  to  meet  you.  I  thought  some  accident  had 
occurred.  You  must  have  found  some  extraordinary 
charm  in  the  place,  to  have  lingered  so  long." 

"  So  we  did,"  cried  Estelle,  eager  to  tell  the  news  ;  "  we 
found  Mr.  Vivian.  He's  riding  in  the  other  carnage,  and 
that's  the  reason  Victorine  is  with  us.  Poor  Victorine ! 
she's  tired,  and  starved,  and  sick." 

"Is  Victorine  ill?"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  sudden  change 
of  voice ;  "why  didn't  you  tell  me  of  this,  before?" 

"  I  am  not  ill  now,  Homer,"  said  Victorine,  with  so  deep 
a  colour  mantling  her  cheeks,  it  was  impossible  not  to 
believe  her  words ;  "  but  I'm  not  quite  so  much  an  eaglet 
as  I  thought  I  was." 

"No,"  interrupted  Estelle;  "she  and  Edmund  stayed 
so  far  behind  us  all ;  and  Mr.  Selwyn  had  to  go  back  for 
them,  and  then  Frank  went,  too, — we  were  all  so  frightened 
about  them  ;  1  believe  Edmund  is  sick,  too ;  he  looks  as  if 
he  was." 

"Estelle,  you  talk  too  much,  entirely  too  much,"  said 
Mr.  Selwyn,  excessively  vexed  at  her  ill-timed  prattle, 
which  had  all  the  effect  which  he  feared,  upon  her 
brother.  He  knit  his  brow,  bit  his  lips,  and  his  hands 
visibly  trembled  on  the  bridle-rein.  "I  thought  I  should 
be  an  intruder,"  he  muttered;  "it  has  all  been  arranged 
marvellously  well." 

The  high-spirited  horse  champed  his  bits,  and  tos&erf 
I's  mane,  smarting  from  the  goading  spurs  of  his  rider 


276 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 


With  fiery  eyes,  dilated  nostrils,  and  foaming  mouth,  he 
iarted  before  the  carriage,  while  Mr.  Selwyn  called  upon 
Homer,  in  a  commanding  voice,  to  restrain  him,  at  the  risk 
of  his  life.  The  horses  of  Mr.  Selwyn,  high  fed  and  little 
used,  caught  fire  from  the  impetuous  motions  of  the  other, 
'  and  began  to  follow  in  a  full  gallop. 

"Hush!"  cried  Mr.  Selwyn,  putting  his  hand  over 
Estelle's  mouth,  that  opened  for  a  violent  scream ;  "  add 
not  to  the  mischief  you've  already  done,  by  breaking  all 
our  necks.  Keep  still,  and  you  are  safe." 

Taking  the  reins  into  his  own  hands,  he  so  curbed  their 
headlong  speed,  that  Emma  and  Victorine  felt  confident 
that  a  master-hand  guided  their  course,  and  forgot  their 
fears  for  themselves,  in  anxiety  for  Homer.  Estelle  was 
so  much  mortified  and  wounded  by  Mr.  Selwyn's  merited 
rebuke,  that  it  seemed  doubtful  whether  she  would  ever 
speak  again.  It  must  be  acknowledged  that  Estelle  was 
somewhat  spoiled.  She  was  the  youngest  child,  remark- 
ably pretty,  and  remarkably  small,  for  her  age ;  the  petted 
darling  of  the  household,  and  the  especial  idol  of  Aunt 
Patty.  She  had  been  so  much  accustomed  to  make  un- 
limited demands  on  her  social  powers,  for  the  entertainment 
of  the  latter,  she  forgot  that  every  one  did  not  lend  her  as 
delighted  an  ear.  If  she  had  been  aware  how  much 
injury  she  was  doing  Victorine,  by  the  unguarded  sim- 
plicity of  her  remarks,  she  would  have  wished  herself 
dumb  for  life, — the  greatest  penalty  which  could  be  in- 
flicted upon  her.  She  only  knew  that  she  had  offended 
Mr.  Selwyn,  and  she  made  the  wise  resolution,  of  being 
very  still  and  modest,  till  she  was  reinstalled  in  his  good 
graces. 

At  length  they  were  all  safe  at  the  homestead.  Estelle's 
tongue  burned  to  be  the  first  to  run  in  and  ten  her  mother 
that  Vivian  was  come  ;  but  she  remembered  that  Mr.  Sel- 
wyn had  said  that  she  talked  entirely  too  much,  and  she 
Buffered  him  to  be  his  own  herald. 

Bessy  could  not  refrain  from  throwing  herself  into  her 
mother's  arms,  in  the  fulness  of  her  joy.  "  Dear  mother," 
whispered  she,  "Frank  has  acted  nobly!  It  is  he  who 
has  made  us  so  happy.  You  must  be  kinder  to  him  than 
you  have  ever  been  before." 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  277 

Much  as  Mrs.  Worth  rejoiced  at  the  return  of  Vivian, 
and  the  magnanimous  behaviour  of  Frank,  she  saw,  with 
regret,  that  happiness  was  very  far  removed  from  the 
bosoms  of  some.  Homer's  morning  conduct  was  a  suffi- 
cient reason  for  Victorine's  depression ;  but  the  quickness 
of  maternal  love  perceived  that  Edmund  had  a  heaviness 
on  his  heart,  deeper  than  had  ever  weighed  there  before. 
Mr.  Selwyn,  too,  had  an  anxious  and  troubled  look ;  and 
his  eye  frequently  rested  on  Edmund  with  an  intensity  of 
expression  that  was  inexplicable  to  her.  Homer  did  not 
appear ;  his  horse  stood,  panting,  in  the  yard ;  but  whither 
the  master  had  gone,  to  brood  in  sullen  secrecy,  over 
his  own  dark  thoughts,  no  one  knew  or  asked.  The 
erratic  movements  of  the  misanthropist  were  generally 
suffered  to  pass  unnoticed. 

"  Why  don't  you  tell  me  about  all  the  wonders  you  have 
seen,  Estelle  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Worth,  grieved  to  see  that 
even  Estelle  looked  sad. 

"  Mr.  Selwyn  thinks  that  I, — I — talk  too — much,"  stam- 
mered she,  blushing,  and  her  eyes  filling  with  tears. 

"  And  because  I  said  that,  perhaps  a  little  too  hastily,  I 
hope  my  little  friend  is  not  going  to  be  dumb  all  the  rest 
of  her  life,"  said  Mr.  Selwyn,  drawing  her  towards  him 
with  a  smile  of  reconciliation. 

"I  am  afraid  you  troubled  Mr.  Selwyn  very  much, 
or  said  something  very  improper,"  said  her  mother, 
gravely. 

"  I  only  said  that  Victorine  and  Edmund  stayed  away 
off,  behind  us;  and  that  Mr.  Selwyn  had  to  go  back  for 
them,  and  Frank  after  him : — and  then  Mr.  Selwyn  got 
angry,  and  Homer's  horse  began  to  run,  and  our  horses 

began  to  gallop,  and — and "  Estelle  paused,  conscious 

then,  in  her  vindication,  she  was  yielding  to  her  beset- 
ting sin. 

A  pang  such  as  only  a  mother  feels,  when  she  foresees 
the  certain  misery  of  her  children,  pierced  the  heart  of 
Mrs.  Worth ;  she  looked  at  Edmund,  whose  changing 
countenance  confirmed  her  apprehensions ;  she  looked  at 
Victorine,  and  for  the  first  time  the  dread  that  she  had 
been  nurturing  in  her  bosom,  a  false  being  unworthy  of  so 
sacred  a  dwelling-place,  came  shudderingly  over  her. 


2 ,  o  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

Frank,  who  had,  as  Bessy  said,  acted  nobly  throughout 
the  day,  regardless  of  himself,  and  acutely  alive  to  the  feel- 
ings of  others,  began  with  his  wonted  hilarity  to  talk  of 
their  adventures,  "  their  hair-breadth  escapes,  and  immi- 
nent deadly  perils,"  not  forgetting  his  own  downfal. 

"  Poor  Victorine,"  added  he,  "  is  too  much  of  a  fine 
lady  to  keep  up  with  the  wild  flights  of  Bessy  and  Estelle. 
We  were  all  shamefully  forgetful  of  her,  and  left  her  in 
the  lurch,  till  Edmund,  who  is  ever  thoughtful  for  the  com- 
fort of  others,  took  compassion  on  her,  as  she  had  done  on 

me,  when  Bessy  left  me,  for  that  Vivian" emphasizing 

with  much  vehemence  on  the  name  of  his  rival.  "  She  fell 
sick,  and  Mr.  Selwyn  went  to  the  rescue.  Now,  had  it 
not  been  for  my  sad  downfal,  and  Victorine's  fine  lady 
airs,  we  should  have  had  a  glorious  day ;  a  day  to  be  re- 
membered in  the  annals  of  history ;  a  day,  which  I  am 
sure  I  shall  ever  remember  with  gratitude,  for  I  trust  I 
have  gained  a  life-long  friend,  and  I  know  there's  one 
happy  heart  will  bless  me  in  her  prayers  to-night." 

"Not  only  to-night,  but  for  ever,"  ejaculated  Bessy, 
giving  him  a  glance  from  her  heavenly  blue  eyes,  that 
conveyed  a  thousand  blessings. 

Vivian's  fine  countenance  became  luminous  with  feeling. 
"  You  have  indeed  gained  a  friend,"  he  cried ;  "  who 
will  ever  associate  you  with  the  sweetest  and  brightest 
moments  of  his  existence." 

Frank's  careless,  natural  narration,  relieved  Mrs.  Worth 
of  her  worst  fears,  and  her  conscience  upbraided  her,  for 
her  transient  injustice  to  Victorine.  The  current  of  her 
feelings  was  changed,  and  as  it  flowed  more  calmly  on,  the 
lovely,  love-lighted  face  of  Bessy  was  mirrored  on  the 
tide. 

Estelle,  on  whose  weary  eyes,  the  dews  of  slumber 
were  falling  fast,  was  warned  by  her  mother  to  retire. 
The  affectionate  child  lingered  on  the  threshold  for  a  kind 
word  from  Mr.  Selwyn,  whose  attention  at  that  moment 
was  occupied  by  another.  Waiting  in  vain  to  catch  his 
eye,  she  stole  behind  his  chair,  and  whispered,  "  Pray, 
forgive  me  for  talking  too  much.  I'll  try  not  to  do  so  a*ny 
more." 

Mr.  Selwyn  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  imprinted  a 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  279 

kiss  on  her  fair  round  cheek.  "  You  must  forgive  me,  too, 
my  darling  Estelle,  for  speaking  so  harshly,  and  putting 
my  hand  so  roughly  on  those  sweet  lips.  But  the  happi- 
ness and  the  lives  of  many  were  at  stake,  and  I  was  obliged 
to  be  stern,  to  save  them.  One  scream,  and  Aunt  Patty 
might  now  be  mourning  over  her  lost  darling,  and  her  un- 
finished counterpane." 

Estelle  smiled  through  her  tears,  and  went  to  bed  with  a 
lightened  heart.  Mr.  Selwyn  sought  that  evening  an 
interview  with  Mrs.  Worth.  That  day  seemed  destined 
to  be  marked  in  the  annals  of  the  family  history.  Mr. 
Selwyn,  whose  manners  were  remarkable  for  their  elegant 
self-possession,  was  on  this  occasion  visibly  embarrassed, 
and  Mrs.  Worth  waited  in  some  trepidation  for  the  com- 
munication he  was  about  to  make. 

"  I  wished  to  speak  with  you,  madam,"  said  he,  after 
making  some  general  remarks,  "  upon  our  contemplated 
tour.  It  is  Edmund's  desire  to  go  immediately,  and  what- 
ever regret  you  may  feel,  at  parting  with  him  so  soon,  I 
think  your  penetration  must  perceive  the  wisdom  of  his 
resolution.  Should  he  remain  longer  here,  I  fear  that  his 
happiness  must  be  the  inevitable  sacrifice." 

"  I  dreaded  as  much,"  replied  Mrs.  Worth.  "  I  see  but 
too  well  he  is  unhappy,  and  that  he  does  not  suffer  alone. 
But  must  he  for  ever  be  an  exile  from  his  home  ?  Must  he 
be  made  a  victim  to  the  dark  passions  of  others  ?  He, 
who  seemed  born  to  make  the  sunshine  of  my  life  !  And 
yet,  I  tremble  while  he  remains.  If  I  should  oppose  his 
going,  I  may  bring  a  weight,  of  sorrow  on  my  soul,  that 
would  crush  it  to  the  dust." 

She  bowed  her  face  upon  her  hands,  and  a  silent  prayer 
ascended  to  Heaven,  for  fortitude  to  endure,  and  strength 
to  sustain. 

"  Do  not  shadow  out  too  sad  a  futurity,"  said  Mr.  Sel- 
wyn ;  "  I  hope  every  thing  from  this  speedy  separation. 
Edmund  is  so  young,  and  such  a  well-spring  of  joy  has, 
till  now,  been  gushing  in  his  soul.  I  cannot  think  of  his 
green  hopes  teing  withered,  never  to  bloom  again.  Ho- 
•iner,  if  once  united  to  Victorine,  may,  perhaps,  find  his 
troubled  spirit  lulled  to  rest  on  the  bosom  of  wedded 
love." 


280  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

"Homer's  spirit  will  never  find  rest  in  this  world," 
said  the  mother.  "  He  may  have  here  and  there  a  gleam 
of  happiness,  but  it  will  be  like  a  sun-ray  on  the  roaring 
billows.  No — there  is  no  such  thing  as  rest,  for  such  a 
spirit  as  Homer's.  Yet  why  should  I  limit  the  power  of 
the  Almighty  ?  There  is  a  peace  which  passeth  all 
understanding,  which  may  yet  dawn  upon  his  soul.  Oh ! 
that  he  might  repose  on  the  bosom  of  heavenly  love  !" 

"And  now,"  said  Mr.  Selwyn,  "  will  you  permit  me  to 
speak,  one  moment,  of  my  own  hopes  and  wishes :  I  would 
not  be  selfish,  yet  I  have  identified  my  happiness  so 
closely  with  yours,  and  your  interesting  family,  I  cannot 
separate  it  if  I  would.  No  man  living  knows  how  to  at- 
tach a  higher  value  to  the  blessings  of  domestic  life.  I 
once  had  an  angel  wife,  who  made  this  world  a  paradise 
to  me.  She  was  taken  from  me,  and  no  sweet  child  was 
left,  to  '  hang  upon  my  neck,  and  look  resembling  her.' 
My  home  was  a  desert — I  exchanged  it  for  a  public  life, 
and  sought  in  the  exercise  of  exalted  duties,  and  in  the 
bustle  of  stirring  events,  oblivion  for  unutterable  wo 
Accident  threw  in  my  way  the  son  of  my  early  friend ;  and 
my  widowed,  childless  heart,  yearned  to  adopt  him  as  my 
own.  I  became  domesticated,  as  it  were,  in  the  bosom  of 
your  lovely  family,  and  all  the  sympathies  of  life  have 
been  re-awakened  in  my  bosom."  He  paused,  and  Mrs . 
Worth  trembled  for  the  revelation  which  he  was  about  to 
make.  She  honoured  and  esteemed  him  as  the  friend  of 
her  husband.  She  loved  him,  as  the  friend  and  benefactor 
of  her  children,  but  her  heart  was  buried  in  the  grave  ot 
her  first  and  only  love,  and  she  felt,  if  ever  woman  did,  the 
truth  of  these  thrilling  words  : 

"  Oh  !  what  is  any  living  love, 

To  that  which  cannot  quit  the  dead  ?" 

Mr.  Selwyn  rose,  and  walked  several  times  across  the 
room,  without  speaking — then  stopped  and  laid  his  hand 
on  the  chair,  which  supported  Mrs.  Worth. 

"  You  must  have  anticipated,"  said  he,  in  an  agitated 
voice,  "  the  avowal  I  am  about  to  make.  The  manifesta- 
tions of  true  affection  cannot  often  elude  the  penetration  of 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  281 

others.  I  fear  you  may  think  my  hopes  presumptuous, 
nay,  even  preposterous  ;  and  yet,  upon  your  decision,  de- 
pends the  happiness  of  my  life." 

Poor  Mrs.  Worth  !  she  sat  with  her  eyes  bent  upon  the 
floor,  a  colour  on  her  cheek,  bright  as  the  first  rose  of 
youth.  This  was  such  a  sudden  and  unexpected  trial ! 
To  give  pain  to  the  noble  and  generous  friend  of  her  chil- 
dren, perhaps  deprive  them  of  their  future  protector,  of 
one  who  might  watch  over  them,  if  she,  perchance,  were 
laid  low  in  the  dust.  Yet  the  thought  of  a  second  mar- 
riage seemed,  to  her  constant  heart,  as  great  a  sacrilege  as 
if  her  husband  still  walked  hand  in  hand  with  her,  living, 
loving,  and  supporting. 

"  I  see,  and  do  not  wonder  at  your  hesitation,"  said  he  ; 
"  she  is  so  young,  and  you  may  may  think  that  she  regards 
me  with  only  filial  reverence.  But  Emma  has  the  thought- 
fulness  and  serenity  of  maturer  years,  blended  with  the 
simplicity  and  tenderness  of  youth.  Prevented,  from  deli- 
cacy of  health,  from  sharing  the  usual  amusements  of  her 
age,  she  has  acquired  a  sobriety  of  feeling,  and  a  kind  of 
matronly  grace  of  manner,  which  make  me  forget  the  dis- 
parity of  age.  If  I  have  your  permission  to  ask  her  to  be 
my  wife,  I  am  willing  to  hazard  a  rejection  from  her." 

Mrs.  Worth  raised  her  eyes,  with  a  sensation  of  inde- 
scribable relief.  Grateful,  beyond  measure,  that  she  had 
not  committed  herself,  by  uttering  any  words  expressive 
of  her  misunderstanding  of  his  proposal,  astonished  at  the 
conquest  of  her  youthful  daughter,  her  unpretending, 
heaven-devoted  Emma;  and  nattered  by  such  a  compli- 
ment from  so  excellent  and  distinguished  a  man,  she  found 
it  difficult  to  collect  her  thoughts,  so  as  to  give  him  a  clear 
and  definite  answer. 

"  She  is  so  young,"  was  her  first  remark. 

"  Yes  !  but  I  am  old  enough  to  guard  her  youth." 

"  Her  constitution  is  so  frail !" 

"  I  will  cherish  her,  like  a  tender  plant  in  my  bosom. 
My  strength  shall  be  the  stay  of  her  weakness.  I  will  be 
father  and  husband  in  one." 

"  You  have  indeed  proved  a  father  to  all  my  children, 
and  if  by  giving  you  one,  I  can  partly  cancel  my  debt  of 
gratitude,  I  ought  to  rejoice  in  the  opportunity.  But 


282  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

would  you  still  keep  your  station  in  public  life  ?     Would 
you  think  of  taking  her  to  foreign  climes  ?" 

"  I  see  you  think  I  am  asking  too  much  of  your  friend- 
ship. But  the  sea-born  breezes  will  bear  strength  upon 
their  wings,  and  finish  the  work  of  restoration  commenced 
in  a  southern  land.  If  you  could  send  her  across  the 
ocean,  under  the  charge  of  a  good  physician,  you  ought  to 
do  it.  I  will  be  the  best  physician  in  the  world ;  though 
she  looks  too  well  now  to  remain  on  the  invalid  list.  By- 
and-by,  I  will  come  and  settle  down  in  some  beautiful 
country-seat,  perhaps  near  your  own,  where  we  may 
enjoy 

"  An  elegant  sufficiency,  content, 
Retirement,  rural  quiet,  friendship,  books, 
Progressive  virtue,  and  approving  Heaven." 

Mrs.  Worth  remembered  how  often  her  husband  had 
applied  this  beautiful  picture  of  domestic  happiness  to  their 
own  wedded  life,  and  many  a  proof  of  recollected  love 
moistened  her  eyes  with  the  dew  of  memory. 

"Edmund,"  continued  he,  "shall  not  suffer  from  my 
present  intentions.  I  have  an  ample  fortune,  which  he  still 
shall  share.  Vivian,  too,  requires  my  aiding  hand.  I  will 
give  hrm  a  broad  stepping-stone  to  stand  upon,  and  then 
his  genius  will  build  others,  step  above  step,  till  he  reaches 
a  height  of  fame  and  fortune,  equal  to  his  most  lofty  aspi- 
rations. Believe  me,  madam,  a  glorious  destiny  awaits  that 
young  man.  Bessy  is  the  child  of  genius  herself,  and  their 
two  souls  meet  and  blend  into  one,  as  naturally  as  two  sun- 
rays  meet  together  as  they  unite.  Oh  !  madam,  I  trust 
your  children  will  all  be  happy  yet.  My  friend  will  look 
down  from  heaven,  and  rejoice  over  the  loved  ones  he  has 
left  on  earth." 

"  I  have  no  words  to  express  my  gratitude  for  your  all- 
embracing  kindness,"  cried  Mrs.  Worth;  "and  if  the  love 
of  my  young  and  unobtrusive  Emma  can  in  any  way  repay 
a  mother's  debt,  and  if  her  heart  answers  to  the  wishes  of 
yours,  take  her,  with  the  dowry  of  my  blessings  and  my 
prayers." 

Did  Emma's  heart  answer  to  Mr.  Selwyn's  ?  Had  she 
been  warned  by  premonitory  symptoms  of  the  approaching 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  283 

crisis  ?  She  had  heen  pleased  and  honoured  by  his  extreme 
kindness  and  attention,  but  she  attributed  it  to  the  interest 
he  felt  in  the  daughter  of  his  friend.  Her  modesty  and 
simplicity,  and  his  superior  age,  talents  and  fortune,  had 
prevented  her  from  dreaming  of  the  possibility  of  such  a 
union.  Thfe  idea  of  any  one's  loving  her,  when  Bessy  was 
near,  never  entered  her  imagination.  She  might  excite 
sympathy,  kindness,  and  esteem;  but  love  was  Bessy's 
inalienable  right.  She,  herself,  was  destined  to  be  an  old 
maid ;  and  she  had  resolved  to  make  that  often  aspersed 
name  so  lovely  from  the  graces  of  the  heart  and  mind,  that 
no  one  should  shrink  from  wearing  it.  Wi'h  such  an  hum- 
ble estimate  of  herself,  it  is  no  wonder  that  Emma  was  over- 
whelmed with  astonishment. 

Had  the  mountain,  which  they  had  just  ascended,  come 
down,  and  knelt  at  her  feet,  she  could  not  have  experienced 
more  amazement.  Bat  when  the  stunning  effects  of  sur- 
prise were  over,  and  she  could  realize  that  she  was  sought 
as  a  wife,  by  the  man  whom  she  revered  as  the  first  of 
human  beings,  her  gratitude  was  as  deep  as  her  humility. 
To  be  chosen  as  the  companion  of  his  intellectual  and  en- 
nobling pursuits,  the  object  of  his  chief  tenderness  and  care, 
to  have  his  arm  of  strength,  and  soul  of  honour,  as  a  constant 
guard  and  support ;  to  kneel  at  his  side  in  prayer,  and  com- 
mune with  him  of  the  mysteries  of  holiness  ;  to  walk  hand 
in  hand  with  him  through  life,  and  partake  with  him  of  a 
blissful  eternity  ;  surely,  this  was  happiness  enough  for 
her  meek  and  unambitious  spirit.  It  was  not  long  be- 
fore she  came  to  the  conclusion,  that  while  she  cherished 
for  him  all  the  affection  of  a  daughter,  she  could  learn  to 
love  him  with  all  the  tenderness  of  a  wife. 

When  those  sweet,  virgin  sisters  pressed  their  nightly 
couch,  their  hearts  were  too  full  for  sleep.  What  a  change 
in  their  life-prospects  since  the  morning  light!  and  what  a 
contrast  in  their  own  !  Bessy's  love  partook  of  the  warmth, 
the  enthusiasm  and  poetry  of  her  nature.  Her  imagination 
beautified  and  glorified  her  love.  Her  heart  had  not  waited 
to  know,  whether  Vivian  first  loved  her,  but  she  had  wel- 
comed him,  as  she  had  once  told  her  mother,  as  one  known 
and  loved  in  a  remembered  world  ;  she  was  sure  she  would 
have  chosen  him  from  the  assembled  universe,  as  her  fellow 


284  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

soul ;  and  had  not  circumstances  thrown  them  togetl  ?r,  she 
would  have  gone  through  life  a  lonely  pilgrim,  sigh  ing  for 
the  one  being  created  for  her.  But  now  that  being  was 
found.  They  had  met — they  had  loved — they  were  to  be 
united  for  ever.  Bessy  was  too  happy  to  sleep.  Her 
cheeks'  glowing  rose  warmed  the  snows  of  her  pillow,  and 
her  heart  throbbed  audibly  beneath  the  folds  of  her  white 
night-robe. 

While  the  two  lovely  sisters  thus  lay  cheek  to  cheek, 
and  heart  to  heart,  in  their  vestal  couch,  while  the  holy 
stars  looked  silently  and  lovingly  on  them,  through  their 
parted  curtains,  and  ministering  angels  hovered  with  unseen 
pinions  round  their  bed,  there  was  another,  who  kept  lonely 
vigils,  whose  sighs  stole  on  the  silence  of  the  midnight 
hour,  and  whose  pillow  was  saturated  with  tears.  Victo- 
rine  could  not  sleep.  The  midnight  hour  found  her 
bathed  in  tears  ;  the  morning  light  flashed  on  her  wakeful 
eyes  and  fevered  brow.  She  arose  early,  and  endeavoured 
to  efface,  with  copious  ablutions,  the  traces  of  her  tears. 

"  I  will  bathe  my  soul  in  music,"  said  she,  "  and  see  if 
I  can  find  balm  in  the  heavenly  ablution."  She  sought  the 
piano,  and  began  a  morning  hymn  of  praise,  which  Mrs. 
Worth  loved  to  hear.  "  His  mother's  wakening  ear  will 
hear,  and,  perhaps,  bless  the  sounds." 

Did  she  mean  Homer,  or  Edmund's  mother  ?  Sweet  and 
solemn  her  voice  rose  ;  and  sad,  too,  though  it  was  a  hymn 
of  adoration  and  praise — 

"  Lord,  in  the  morning  thpu  shall  hear 

My  voice  ascending  high, — 
To  thee  will  I  address  my  prayer, 
To  thee  lift  up  mine  eye." 

"Victorine!"  uttered  a  deep-toned  voice.  It  was  the 
voice  of  Homer — and  she  knew  that  a  scene  of  passion  and 
strife  awaited  her. 

"  Is  your  soul  tuned  to  harmony  this  morning,  Homer  ?" 
asked  she,  looking  up  with  a  smile.  It  was  a  forced  one, 
and  vaniT  ed  when  her  eye  met  his. 

"You  meet  n?  in  mockery,  Victorine,"  sail  he,  "but 
there  >s  not  one  chord  in  my  spirit  that  can  respoid  to 
music  )i  mirth.  I  should  think  your  condu<  t  of  ysster- 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  285 

day  might  produce  by  this  time  some  serious  ^flec- 
tions." 

"  What  conduct  ?  If  you  mean  my  going,  unaccompa- 
nied by  yourself,  reflection  only  confirms  me  in  the  pro- 
priety of  the  step.  You  do  not,  cannot  blame  me  no\v, 
!  lomer,  for  doing  what  every  other  person  in  the  world  would 
lave  done  in  my  situation.  What  any  other  person  but 
/•ourself  would  have  wished  me  to  have  done.  You  do 
jlame  me  still.  I  have  done  you  more  than  justice. 
I  thought  you  selfish  from  passion.  I  find  you  so  from 
principle." 

"  Ever  ready  to  justify  yourself,  Victorine.  JSver  ready  to 
throw  censure  on  me.  I  was  not  about  to  allude,  at  this 
moment,  to  the  circumstance  of  your  choosing  a  party  of 
pleasure,  in  preference  to  showing,  by  a  trifling  sacrifice, 
your  regard  to  my  happiness.  I  could  have  forgiven  that ; 
t  did,  so  far  as  to  ride  forth  to  meet  you,  weary  as  I  was, 
resolved  to  greet  you  in  the  spirit  of  reconciliation.  But 
you  drew  coldly  back  as  I  approached,  as  if  something  evil 
were  crossing  your  path.  No  wonder,  you  drew  back  in 
conscious  guilt,  when  you  knew  how  you  had  spent  the 
hours  since  we  parted.  How  glaring  must  have  been  your 
conduct,  since  even  childhood  made  it  a  matter  of  animad- 
version. What  did  your  innocent  sister  say  ?  Good  hea- 
vens !  how  calmly  I  am  speaking,  when  her  every  word  is 
blistered  on  my  brain  !" 

"  I'm  weary — oh  !  so  weary  of  this  strife" — cried  Victo- 
rine, clasping  her  hands  passionately  together,  "  that  I  am 
tempted  to  make  a  solemn  vow,  that  this  shall  be  the  last 
time  we  shall  ever  meet.  Yet  once  again,  in  pity  to  your 
misery,  I  will  explain  those  blistering  words.  Knowing 
your  unhappy  suspicions,  Edmund  and  myself  mutually 
avoided  each  other.  In  coming  down  the  mountain,  I  even 
solicited  the  arm  of  Frank,  because  my  heart  told  me  you 
would  thank  me  for  the  choice.  Before  we  left  the  cave,  I 
became  so  absorbed  in  sad  meditations,  caused  alone  by  you, 
that  I  knew  not  when  my  companions  left  me.  Edmund 
was  the  last,  and  because  he  was  not  cruel  enough  to  suffer 
me  to  come  down  those  rough  rocks  unsupported  and  alone, 
you  upbraid  me,  as  a  criminal,  guilty  of  some  ignominious 
deed.  O  Homer  !  you  are  not  worthy  of  such  a  noble,  gene- 


286  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

TOMS  brother.  You  do  not  know  the  heart  you  believe 
capable  of  such  injury  to  you." 

"  Every  word  you  have  uttered  "  continued  he,  with  in- 
creasing vehemence,  "  has  only  added  tenfold  weight  to  my 
suspicions.  I  did  not  ask  for  an  explanation.  I  knew  there 
was  none  to  be  given.  Do  not  add  duplicity  to  your  already 
broken  faith.  Do  not  go  on  coolly  and  deliberately  playing 
with  my  credulity,  and  mocking  me  with  protestations  of 
regard.  The  torture  inflicted  in  ancient  days,  of  suffering 
water  to  fall,  drop  by  drop,  till  it  perforated  the  living  brain, 
and  bared  the  secret  place  of  thought,  could  not  have  been 
compared  to  this.  Victorine,  why  do  you  attempt  to  deceive 
me  in  this  manner  ?  You  do  not  love  me  ;  you  never  have 
loved  me." 

"  I  have  loved  you,  Homer,"  cried  she,  with  more  sorrow 
than  anger  in  her  voice  and  manner.  "  I  have  loved  you 
as  you  never  will  be  loved  again.  Hear  me  calmly,  for 
one  moment,  and  then  I  am  willing  to  be  silent  for  ever. 
When  I  first  discovered  the  influence  I  had  gained  over 
your  heart,  my  pride  exulted  in  the  thought,  that  the  eye, 
that  looked  so  coldly  and  darkly  on  all  the  world,  softened  at 
the  beams  of  mine ;  that  the  bosom,  shut  to  every  sweet 
affection,  opened  involuntarily  to  embrace  ray  image.  Then 
tenderer  feelings  dawned,  and  my  eyes,  which  had  hitherto 
glanced  sportively  on  all  around,  learned  to  soflen  at  the 
beams  of  yours.  My  heart  unfolded  to  receive  your  image, 
and  enshrine  it,  as  a  sacred  trust.  The  gloom  of  your  cha- 
racter, at  which  I  once  flung  the  random  shafts  of  ridicule, 
assumed  a  grandeur  in  my  sight,  since  I  found  it  resulted 
from  a  depth  of  feeling,  which  no  common  mind  could 
fathom.  Yes,  Homer,"  continued  Victorine,  with  indescriba- 
ble grace  and  dignity,  her  language  rising  into  that  meta- 
phorical strain,  in  which  strong  passion  unconsciously  in- 
dulges, "  I  looked  upon  you  as  one  of  those  ruins,  round 
which  genius  and  feeling  love  to  linger,  where  the  moon- 
light shines  lovelier  from  the  very  darkness  of  the  shadows, 
and  the  ivy  blooms  brighter  from  the  dampness  of  its  broken 
walls.  But  since  I  find  you  capable  of  the  most  degrading 
suspicions,  and  cruel  injustice ;  since  I  see  you  persisting 
in  a  course  of  conduct  as  debasing  to  yourself  as  it  is  har- 
rowing to  me,  destroying  the  peace  of  your  brother,  and 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  287 

wearing  out  my  own  existence  with  your  causeless,  unna- 
tural jealousy,  setting  aside  manliness,  and  reason,  and 
truth  ;  I  tell  thee,  Homer,  and  I  tell  thee  calmly— I  would 
as  soon  take  the  lightning's  chain,  and  bind  it  round  my 
breast,  for  warmth,  as  trust  for  happiness  in  such  love  as 
you  can  offer  me." 

"  Then  you  reject  me  for  ever  !"  cried  he,  his  quivering- 
lips  turning  as  pale  as  clay. 

At  this  moment,  which  might  be  the  crisis  of  his  fate,  the 
door  was  opened,  and  Edmund  stood  before  them.  He  was 
not  aware  of  the  interview,  on  which  he  was  intruding,  and, 
as  soon  as  he  discovered  in  whose  presence  he  was,  he 
turned  to  leave  the  apartment. 

"  Stay,"  cried  Homer,  his  blood  boiling  in  his  veins  from 
the  fire  of  his  passion;  "stay,  brother  that  was,  traitor  that 
is.  The  time  is  come  when  we  must  understand  each 
other.  Where  is  the  vow  you  made  before  the  God  of 
heaven,  that  you  would  never  be  my  rival,  in  fame,  for- 
tune, or  love  ?  Fame — I  care  not  for  its  breath.  For- 
tune— you  have  already  secured ;  and  love — all  that  I 
treasured,  all  that  I  lived  for,  you  have  stolen  from  me ; 
basely,  insidiously,  like  the  midnight  robber,  who  wraps 
himself  in  darkness,  as  a  thick  veil.  Look  me  in  the  face, 
if  you  dare,  and  tell  me  that  your  vow  is  not  broken." 

"  Broken  in  spirit,  but  not  in  deed,"  cried  Edmund,  re- 
coiling from  the  frenzied  glance  of  Homer.  "  I  told  you 
that  I  was  human,  that  I  had  strong  passions,  and  that  it 
was  only  in  the  strength  of  God,  that  I  wrestled  with  them. 
[  have  never  attempted  to  rival  you.  Victorine  knows  that 
I  have  not.  I  have  treated  her  as  the  stranger  within  our 
gates,  not  the  friend  of  my  childhood.  I  have  done  what  I 
can  do  no  more.  I  cannot  stay.  The  world  henceforth 
shall  be  my  home.  I  leave  every  thing  to  you — mother, 
sisters,  Victorine,  and  home.  I  am  willing  my  very  name 
should  be  blotted  from  remembrance,  provided  such  ob- 
livion could  purchase  tranquillity  for  you." 

"No,  no,  Edmund,"  cried  Victorine,  "leave  me  not  to 
him.  My  decision  is  made.  I  shall  return  to  my  native 
clime,  and  bury  in  the  walls  of  a  convent  every  youthful 
nope.  Homer,  if  you  had  fifty  thousand  brothers,  and 


288  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

banished  them  all  for  my  sake,  it  would  be  in  vain ;  I 
never  could  be  your  wife." 

Edmund  gazed  upon  Victorine,  as  slowly  and  sadly, 
but  firmly,  she  uttered  these  emphatic  words.  They  were 
not  the  breathings  of  passion,  but  the  expression  of  an  un- 
alterable will.  Her  eyes,  in  conclusion,  were  lifted  towards 
heaven ;  her  hands  were  clasped  tightly  over  her  breast. 
The  idea  that  she  was  free,  that,  though  lost  to  him,  he 
was  not  doomed  to  love  her  as  the  wife  of  his  brother, 
filled  him  with  a  momentary  joy,  too  strong  to  be  repressed. 
The  emotions  which  he  had  so  long  struggled  to  subdue, 
rushed,  for  one  instant,  unchecked  through  his  veins, 
burned  on  his  cheek,  and  flashed  from  his  eyes.  Homer 
marked  this  sudden  bursting  of  light  and  flame,  and  he 
marked,  too,  a  sudden,  simultaneous  illumination  of  Victo- 
rine's  late  pale  and  passionless  face.  A  blindness  came 
over  his  eyes ;  a  cold,  clammy  sweat  covered  his  brow. 
He  felt  as  if  he  had  burning  coals  eating  into  his  naked 
heart ;  as  if  all  life  and  warmth  had  concentrated  in  that 
one  spot,  in  a  consuming  blaze,  and  that  Edmund  had 
kindled  it  from  the  fires  of  hell. 

"If  never  mine,  not  Edmund's  !"  exclaimed  he,  rushing 
towards  Edmund,  with  the  fury  of  a  madman.  Victorine 
threw  herself  on  his  arm,  with  a  cry  so  wild  and  piercing, 
that  it  penetrated  to  the  remotest  chamber  of  the  home- 
stead, but  it  was  too  late.  The  blow  descended,  and  Ed- 
mund, thrown  violently  against  the  marble  corner  of  the 
mantelpiece,  lay  prostrate  beneath  his  brother's  fratricidal 
hand. 

What  a  scene  met  the  gaze  of  those  who,  roused  by  that 
wild  cry  of  agony,  ran  in  terror  to  the  spot !  Stretched  on 
the  floor,  still  and  white  as  a  corpse,  was  the  lifeless  body 
of  Edmund,  his  head  resting  on  the  marble  slabs  of  the 
hearth,  which  were  splashed  with  the  blood-drops  that 
gushed  from  his  temples.  And  reclining  over  him,  as 
white  and  almost  as  lifeless,  lay  Victorine,  her  long  hair 
sweeping  over  his  breast,  and  dabbling  in  his  blood,  and 
her  arms  clasping  him  in  a  stiffening  fold.  Standing  over 
this  death-like  pair,  still,  dark,  and  terrible,  as  Cain  over 
the  body  of  his  martyred  brother,  still  as  if  transformed  to 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  289 

stone  by  some  avenging  power,  towered  the  stately  form 
of  Homer. 

It  were  a  vain  attempt  to  describe  the  anguish  and  horror 
that  filled  the  household.  Sorrow  had  once  before  visited 
that  mansion,  a  sudden,  fearful  messenger,  but  it  was  a 
commissioned  angel  from  on  high,  and  the  most  rebellious 
will  soon  learn  to  bow  to  the  mandate  of  God.  But  man 
had  wrought  this  deed — a  son — a  brother.  Strange,  that 
that  fond  mother's  heart  did  not  break  at  once !  Strange, 
that  those  loving,  gentle  sisters,  could  gaze  on  such  a  sight 
and  live  !  But  it  is  astonishing  what  a  weight  of  wo  the 
human  heart  can  bear,  without  being  crushed.  The  first 
distinct  sounds  which  were  heard,  amidst  shrieks  and  in- 
coherent cries,  were  uttered  by  Mr.  Selwyn ;  who,  alone, 
retained  sufficient  self-possession  to  think,  and  to  act. 
"  Bathe  her  temples,  give  her  water  and  air,"  cried  he, 
lifting  Victorine  from  the  bosom  of  Edmund,  and  bearing 
her  to  a  sofa  ;  then  without  waiting  to  see  who  obeyed  his 
command,  he  knelt  down  by  his  adopted  son,  raised  his 
bleeding  head  on  his  arm,  and  laid  his  hand  beneath  the 
folds  of  his  vest.  "Great  God!"  he  ejaculated,  "there  is 
life ;  a  faint  pulsation  in  his  heart.  Haste  for  the  physi- 
cian—quick— bring  bandages — lint — any  thing  to  stop  this 
blood  from  flowing.  Water — for  God's  sake  give  me  water, 
or  he  dies." 

The  moment  Mr.  Selwyn  exclaimed,  "  Great  God  !  there 
is  life  ;"  Homer  burst  into  a  loud,  convulsive  laugh,  then 
fell  back  into  the  arms  of  Frank  and  Vivian,  who  both 
sprang  forward  to  receive  him.  They  bore  him  from  the 
apartment,  but  even  after  the  door  was  closed,  the  echo  of 
that  same  convulsive  laugh  was  heard  again  and  again, 
more  terrible  a  thousand  times  than  the  wailings  of 
grief. 

Edmund  indeed  lived,  but  the  violence  of  the  blow  and 
fall  had  produced  a  concussion  of  the  brain,  and  his  life 
was  suspended  on  so  slender  a  hope,  it  was  scarcely  felt  in 
the  iron  grasp  of  despair,  which  had  hold  of  their  hearts. 

The  sun  went  down  that  night  on  a  house  of  grief,  but 

all  was  still  as  death,  save  the  chamber  where  Homer  lay, 

tossing  in  delirious  agony,  now  tearing  the  bandages  from 

his  arms,  where  the  veins  had  been  opened,  to  give  vent 

19 


290 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 


to  the  hot,  feverish  blood,  and  now  calling  for  water  to 
quench  the  fire  in  his  heart  and  his  brain.  Victorine  had 
fallen  from  one  fainting  fit  into  another,  till,  at  length,  she 
sunk  into  a  stupor  so  deep  it  might  have  been  taken  for 
the  slumber  of  the  grave.  The  sisters,  prohibited  the 
chamber  of  their  brothers,  sat  by  the  couch  of  Victorine, 
holding  her  pallid  hands  and  bathing  them  with  their 
tears.  Sometimes,  the  sound  of  a  softly  opening  door,  a 
cautious  tread  on  the  stairs,  made  their  pulses  stop  and 
their  blood  curdle.  It  might  be  the  messenger  of  death 
approaching,  and  they  feared  to  look  into  each  others 
faces.  Sometimes,  too,  the  ravings  of  Homer  came  like 
the  fitful  moanings  of  an  autumn  wind,  on  the  hush  of  the 
midnight  hour.  Only  the  night  before,  they  had  lain  in 
each  other's  arms,  too  full  of  blissful  hopes  to  slumber,  and 
now  the  same  stars  that  smiled  so  benignantly  upon  them, 
seemed  to  look  down  with  pale,  mournful  lustre,  on  their 
sad  vigils. 

All  night  the  mother  leaned  over  the  bed  of  Edmund, 
watching  his  death-white  face,  and  counting  the  beatings 
of  his  feeble  pulse.  Good  Doctor  Leyton,  the  old  family 
physician,  whom  they  all  loved  next  to  their  minister, 
never  left  them,  but  went  from  room  to  room,  administer- 
ing comfort,  if  not  relief.  Mr.  Selwyn's  principal  station 
was  by  the  side  of  Homer,  but  he  often  stole  in  to  gaze  on 
the  marble  features  of  Edmund,  and  to  whisper  in  the 
mother's  ear  tidings  of  the  unhappy  Homer.  And  where 
are  those  venerable  forms,  seated  side  by  side,  in  the  gloom 
of  that  silent,  shaded  room  ?  How  came  they  there,  those 
old,  trembling,  silver-haired  ones,  to  share  the  night-watch 
which  they  cannot  relieve  ?  How  awful  is  their  appear- 
ance there,  in  the  midst  of  the  stillness  and  grief!  A  link 
between  the  past  and  the  present,  the  living  and  the 
dead! 

The  aged  dwellers  of  the  little  cottage  had  tottered  over 
as  soon  as  the  tidings  had  reached  their  ears,  and  they 
would  not  be  constrained  to  depart  until  morning ;  of  all 
the  family  of  their  benefactress,  none  was  so  beloved  as 
Edmund,  and  the  old  ladies  wept,  and  prayed  God  that  he 
might  live,  even  if  He  should  require  their  lives  in  his 
stead.  Softly  the  octogenarian  murmured  the  language  of 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  291 

Scripture,  with  which  her  memory  was  stored,  and  it  stole 
on  the  ear,  like  the  voice  of  prophecy,  so  solemn  and  slow 
were  the  accents.  It  was  well  poor  old  Aunt  Patty  could 
not  leave  her  apartment,  for  she,  too,  would  have  claimed  a 
place  by  the  pillow  of  Edmund,  and  age  has  an  authority 
which  was  never  disputed  in  the  family  of  Mrs.  Worth. 
Estelle  was  forbidden  to  quit  her,  and  the  child  found  con- 
solation in  pouring  out  her  sorrows  in  Aunt  Patty's  sym- 
pathizing ear. 

Day  passed  after  day,  and  still  the  muffled  knocker,  and 
the  darkened  window,  and  the  mournful  countenances, 
showed  that  the  fear  of  death  hung  over  the  house.  It 
was  true,  Victorine  had  risen,  and  was  seen  hovering  like 
a  pale  ghost  round  the  bed  of  Edmund,  but  Edmund  still 
lay  with  closed  eyes  and  speechless  lips ;  and  Homer, 
though  his  ravings  had  subsided,  languished  under  a  burn- 
ing fever,  brought  on  by  the  fierceness  of  passion. 

The  third  night,  as  the  mother  hung  over  her  second- 
born,  the  long  sealed  lids,  slowly  unclosed,  and  the  soul 
awakened  from  its  trance,  looked  feebly  forth  from  the  dim. 
eyes.  She  did  not  speak,  but  laid  her  hand  gently  on  his 
brow.  A  dewy  moisture  met  her  touch,  and  the  pale  lips 
parted  with  a  perceptible  motion.  Again  the  eyes  closed, 
and  the  faint,  regular  breathings  of  slumber  stole  on  her 
ear.  On  her  knees  she  watched  that  slumber,  and  Victo- 
rine knelt  at  her  side,  for  they  knew  that  sleep  was  the 
crisis  of  his  fate  ;  it  would  either  bear  him  softly  over  the 
billows  of  death,  or  bring  healing  on  its  downy  wings. 

"  Mother,"  murmured  a  faint  voice ;  and  Mrs.  Worth 
knew  that  God  had  given  her  son  back  to  her  arms. 
"Victorine."  The  mother  and  the  Victorine  thus  faintly 
addressed,  attempted  not  to  answer,  but,  on  their  knees  as 
they  were,  they  fell  on  each  other's  neck,  and  wept,  and 
sobbed,  as  if  Edmund  had  just  breathed  his  last.  "  My  bro- 
ther !"  again  sighed  Edmund  ;  "My  unhappy  brother!" 

"  He  lives,  my  son,"  said  Mrs.  Worth,  laying  her  hand 
on  Edmund's  pallid  lips ;  "  but  speak  not,  move  not.  O 
my  God,  I  thank  thee  !" 

She  felt  the  faint  pressure  of  those  pallid  lips  on  her 
hand,  and  his  eyes,  raised  to  heaven,  seemed  to  echo  the 
grateful  ejaculation,  "  O  my  God,  I  thank  thee  1" 


292  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

And  now  Edmund's  only  danger  was,  in  being  killed  by 
too  much  kindness  by  his  tender  nurses.  But  had  they 
forsaken  Homer  ?  Did  no  mother  or  sister  tend  his  fever- 
ish couch,  and  minister  to  his  disease  ?  Ah  !  when  did  a 
mother  ever  forget  her  first-born  ?  At  least  such  a  mother 
as  Homer's  ?  When  did  passion  ever  estrange,  or  crime 
alienate  the  mother  from  her  son,  the  child  of  her  prayers, 
her  hopes,  and  her  tears  ?  During  his  wild  paroxysms,  he 
would  allow  no  one  to  be  near  him,  but  Mr.  Selwyn,  Frank, 
and  Vivian,  who  kept  watch  by  him  day  and  night,  and  it 
often  required  their  united  strength  to  master  him  in  his 
struggles  ;  but  when  the  fever  left  him,  he  was  weak  as  an 
infant,  and  as  easily  subdued.  Though  his  delirious  mad- 
ness was  over,  his  mind  still  wandered,  and  the  doctor  be- 
gan to  fear  a  permanent  alienation  of  the  intellect,  though 
he  did  not  express  his  apprehensions. 

Once,  as  his  mother  sat  by  him,  she  noticed  a  sudden 
change  in  his  countenance.  He  gazed  long  and  mournfully 
on  her,  and  then  said  in  a  low  voice — "Have  you  not 
cursed  me  ?" 

"Curse  my  son?"  she  cried.  "O  Homer!  I  have 
wept  over  you,  and  prayed  over  you,  when  you  knew  me 
not ;  and  now,  Homer — yes,  even  now,  my  first-born,  a 
mother's  blessing  may  be  yours,  if  you  will  not  cast  it  from 
you.  Your  brother  lives,  and  forgives  you,  as  freely  as  he 
hopes  to  be  forgiven  by  his  God." 

"  My  brother  forgives  me  !"  repeated  he,  in  indescribable 
emotion, — "  and  you,  have  you  one  blessing  left  for  me — 
even  for  me — O  my  mother! — me,  the  second  Cain  !" 

He  drew  the  covering  over  his  face,  and  the  bed  shook 
with  the  throes  of  his  agony.  Gently,  and  soothingly,  she 
bent  over,  and  whispered  in  his  ear  words  of  heavenly  con- 
solation. She  told  him  of  the  prodigal,  who,  returning  in 
shame  and  remorse  to  his  father's  mansion,  was  welcomed 
with  the  embraces  of  love  ;  of  the  abounding  joy  in  heaven, 
over  the  repenting  sinner ;  of  the  promise  given  to  the 
broken  and  contrite  heart,  that  the  high  and  Holy  One, 
which  inhabiteth  eternity,  should  descend  and  make  his 
dwelling  there.  Holy  were  the  lessons  taught  on  that  bed 
of  sickness.  The  stubborn  glebe  of  the  sinner's  heart  was 
broken  by  the  ploughshare  of  the  Almighty,  and  watered 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  293 

by  penitential  showers;  it  might  yet  yield  a  harvest  of 
golden  fruit. 

At  length  the  brothers  met  once  more.  Homer,  weak 
and  languid,  reclined  upon  a  sofa,  supported  by  the  arm  of 
his  mother.  Edmund,  whose  recovery  had  been  more 
rapid,  came  in,  leaning  on  Mr.  Selwyn,  who  fain  would 
have  retarded  the  interview.  But  Edmund  yearned  to 
pour  the  balm  of  forgiveness  into  the  goaded  bosorn  of  Ho- 
mer, and  the  first  effort  of  returning  strength  led  him  to  his 
side.  Homer's  head  was  pillowed  on  his  mother's  shoulder. 
His  raven  hair  hung  damp  and  thick  over  his  pale  brow, 
shading  his  sunken  eyes.  His  features  were  in  deep  re- 
pose ;  the  workings  of  passion  having  settled  down  into  an 
expression  of  profound  melancholy.  But  though  the  strife 
seemed  over,  and  the  battle  won,  the  sears  of  a  wounded 
spirit  were  imprinted  on  his  face.  The  lightning  leaves  its 
scathing  mark  ;  fire,  flood,  and  storm,  their  blasting  traces  ; 
but  the  lightning  and  storm  of  passion  leave  deeper  and 
more  blasting  traces  on  the  soul.  Edmund,  pale  and  agi- 
tated, approached  his  brother,  and  the  next  moment  they 
were  weeping*  in  each  other's  arms,  while  the  arms  of  a 
mother  enfolded  them  both. 

Mr.  Selwyn  withdrew.  He  felt  it  was  a  scene  which 
should  be  sacred  from  all  intrusion ;  that  even  the  eye  of 
friendship  should  not  invade  its  hallowed  bounds. 

"  How  much  you  have  suffered,  my  brother  !"  exclaimed 
Edmund,  gazing  with  anguish  on  Homer's  altered  features; 
"  but  God  has  been  merciful  to  us  both.  Let  us  commence 
anew  a  life  of  gratitude  and  love." 

"If  I  could  die  this  moment,"  cried  Homer,  "I  should 
bo  happy — happy  in  the  consciousness  of  your  forgiveness, 
and  hoping  in  the  mercy  of  God.  But  I  dread  to  return  to 
the  world.  I  dread  the  resurrection  of  my  bosom  enemy." 

"  No,  it  will  never  rise  again,"  said  Edmund ;  "  I  re 
nounce  the  fatal  passion  which  has  destroyed  our  peace. 
Had  I  been  true  in  spirit  to  the  vow  I  made,  this  evil  never 
had  befallen  us.  We  have  both  been  tempted,  and  both 
have  sinned." 

"  Hear  rne,  Edmund,"  cried  Homer,  raising  his  head, 
and  lifting  his  joined  hands  to  heaven,  "  while  I  declare,  as 
in  the  presence  of  omnipotent  Truth,  that  the  thought  of 


294 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 


Victorine  shall  never  again  come  betwixt  thee  and  me.  She 
has  renounced  me,  and  I  here  resign  all  claim  upon  her  af- 
fections or  her  faith.  I  absolve  you  from  a  promise  made 
to  a  madman.  As  a  rational  being  I  have  no  right  to  exact 
it.  Be  happy  with  each  other,  and  let  no  remembrance  of 
me  darken  your  felicity.  If  I  live  I  will  gather  up  the 
energies  of  my  soul,  and  labour  henceforth  for  immortality. 
No,  not  for  immortality,  but  eternity.  But  something  tells 
me  here,"  added  he,  pressing  his  hand  heavily  on  his  breast, 
"  that  I  am  destined  to  an  early  grave.  The  flame  of  life 
has  been  burning  too  intensely  to  last.  My  youth  is  con- 
sumed, like  the  grass  of  the  field,  when  the  breath  of  fire 
passeth  over  it.  Weep  not,  my  mother,  my  long-suffering, 
blessed  mother.  The  sleep  of  the  grave  will  be  sweet  to 
me.  No  storm  of  passion  will  disturb  that  long  repose.  No 
scorching  jealousy  be  felt  in  that  cold  bed.  All  will  be 
peace  there,  my  brother." 

Edmund  pressed  his  hand,  incapable  of  utterance.  The 
love  he  felt  for  Victorine  seemed  a  faint  emotion  compared 
to  what  he  experienced,  at  this  moment,  for  Homer.  He 
would  willingly  purchase  his  life  at  the  sacrifice  of  his  own. 
He  would  never  erect  his  happiness  on  the  ruins  of  his  bro- 
ther's. He  would  emulate  his  generosity. 

The  brothers  moved  again  in  the  family  circle ;  but 
Homer  was  the  shadow  of  his  former  self.  His  lofty  figure 
drooped ;  the  lustre  of  his  lamp-bright  eyes  waxed  dim. 
The  haughty  spirit,  which  once  sat  enthroned  in  those  bril- 
liant eyes,  was  become  gentle  as  a  weaned  child,  and  could 
be  led  by  a  silken  thread.  His  mother  watched  him,  with 
heart-breaking  tenderness.  Of  all  her  children,  he  had 
called  forth  the  greatest  intensity  of  feeling.  She  had  loved 
him  with  fear  and  trembling.  The  fear  that  he  would  for- 
feit the  affection  of  all  others,  only  bound  him  closer  to  her 
heart.  Whatever  he  had  been  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  he 
had  always  been  gentle  and  affectionate  to  her.  And  now, 
when  he  was  gentle  and  affectionate  to  all,  and  household 
love  followed  his  steps,  and  hung  upon  his  looks  with  ever- 
increasing  devotion,  when  the  lost  link  in  the  family  chain 
was  restored  in  golden  lustre,  must  the  chain  be  broken  by 
death  ?  Must  the  prodigal,  so  lately  received  into  the  tfo- 
som  of  an  earthly  home,  be  called  so  soon  to  his  Father's 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  295 

mansions  in  the  skies  ?  "  Even  so,  Father,"  replied  the 
Christian  parent — "  if  it  seemeth  good  in  thy  sight.  The 
cup  which  thou  givest  me,  shall  I  not  drain  it,  even  to  the 
bitterest  dregs  of  sorrow  !  One  loved  one  is  gone  before  me 
— another  is  treading  the  shadowy  path.  The  way  through 
the  dark  valley  is  beaten,  and  when  I  travel  through  it,  it 
will  be  sweet  to  know,  that  I  am  treading  in  the  steps  of 
my  husband  and  my  son." 

As  her  fears  strengthened,  so  did  the  hopes  of  others. 
They  saw  his  eye  become  brighter,  and  a  bright  flush  on 
his  cheek  carne  and  went,  like  a  herald  of  returning  health. 
"  He  is  better,"  they  would  say,  "oh!  how  much  better. 
He  will  soon  be  well,  and  we  shall  be  happy  together  once 
more." 

Edmund  and  Victorine  never  talked  of  happiness.  The 
thought  could  not  be  associated  with  Homer,  and  conse- 
quently was  rejected  by  them. 

One  evening  Mrs.  Worth  was  summoned  to  the  dying 
bed  of  old  Lady  Graves,  who  had  never  been  well  since 
the  night  she  sat  by  Edmund,  believing  the  angel  of  death 
had  come  to  bear  him  away.  The  shock  was  too  much  for 
her  aged  frame,  and  she  was  about  to  be  gathered  to  her 
fathers.  She  wanted  to  see  the  children  of  her  benefactress 
— '4her  princely  boy'' — most  of  all,  he  whose  danger  had 
hastened  her  to  the  tomb. 

"  I  am  going,"  said  the  aged  Christian,  holding  out  her 
cold,  trembling  hand,  "  I  am  going  the  way  of  all  the  earth. 
My  soul  rejoices  to  lay  down  the  burden  of  nearly  a  hun- 
dred years.  The  Lord  has  been  exceedingly  gracious  unto 
me,"  continued  she,  gazing  dimly  up  in  the  fair,  sad  faces 
that  bent  over  the  couch,  '•  and  sent  )rou  all  to  comfort  the 
poor  and  the  needy,  to  uphold  the  aged  and  infirm,  to  be 
lamps  to  my  feet,  and  guides  to  my  path.  Come  nearer, 
and  let  me  lay  my  hand  in  blessing  on  you,  before  I  go 
hence  and  am  no  more  seen  for  ever."  Solemnly  the  dy- 
ing saint  laid  her  palsied  hand  on  each  head  bowed  in 
reverence  before  her.  It  lingered  a  moment  on  Bessy's,  and 
her  fingers  slowly  threaded  the  labyrinth  of  her  golden 
tresses.  "  Are  these  the  strings  of  the  golden  harp  ol  the 
cherubims  ?"  she  murmured,  her  senses  wandering  ;  "  they 
are  all  stirring  with  music.  I  stand  upon  a  sea  of  glass, 


296  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

and  I  shall  sing  the  song  of  Moses  and  the  Lamb.  Great 
and  marvellous  are  thy  works,  Lord  God  Almighty  !  Just 
and  true  are  all  thy  ways,  O  thou  King  of  saints  !" 

Her  eyes  closed,  and  she  lay  so  still  they  thought  her 
spirit  had  passed,  when,  suddenly  opening  them,  she  spoke 
with  a  stronger  voice,  and  a  spark  gleamed  in  her  eyes, 
from  life's  decaying  emhers. 

"I  have  had  a  dream,"  she  cried,  gazing  fixedly  at  Mrs. 
Worth.  "  The  angel  of  the  Lord  came  down  to  me,  and 
told  me  he  had  a  message  for  you.  I  am  going  to  have 
company  in  the  grave  to-night.  The  aged  and  the  young 
shall  lie  side  by  side,  and  rise  together  in  the  resurrection 
morn.  The  Master  will  come,  and  knock  at  your  door. 
The  young  man  will  rise  at  the  call.  Keep  him  not  back, 
for  the  Master  is  waiting.  He's  waiting  for  him  and  for 
me." 

As  Mrs.  Worth  and  her  children  listened  to  the  prophetic 
voice  which  pronounced  the  doom  of  death  on  their  house, 
a  cold  chill  ran  through  their  veins.  It  was  true,  her  mind 
had  been  dwelling  lately  on  the  dark  scenes  which  had 
transpired  at  the  homestead,  and  it  Avas  natural  their  re- 
membrance should  blend  with  her  dying  dreams. 

Bessy,  whose  early  faith  in  dreams  had  left  a  shade  of 
superstition  on  her  imagination,  clung  pale  and  tearful  to  the 
arm  of  Edmund,  and  entreated  him  to  return.  And  Mrs. 
Worth  impulsively  sought  to  release  her  hand  from  the  cold 
fingers  that  closed  round  it.  But  reason  soon  mastered  im- 
pulse, and  she  would  not  forsake  the  dying  for  the  terrors  of 
a  feverish  dream. 

"  What  will  become  of  my  poor  daughter,"  said  the  old 
lady,  the  throb  of  nature  wakening  in  her  heart — "  alone — 
alone — all  alone  in  the  world.  Poor  Eunice  ! — but  the  Lord 
will  take  care  of  her.  I  have  never  seen  the  righteous  for- 
jsaken,  nor  their  seed  begging  their  bread." 

"I  will  take  care  of  her,"  said  Mrs.  Worth.  "I  will 
take  her  home,  and  make  her  last  days  comfortable." 

"  Bless  you — bless  you" — murmured  the  aged  mother. 
"  Eunice  will  soon  come  to  me — turn  the  hour-glass,  the 
sand  is  all  run  out."  The  last  sand  of  life  glided  away 
with  these  words  ;  the  weary  pilgrim  was  at  rest. 

Mrs.  Worth  closed  the  sunken  eyes,  smoothed  the  white 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  297 

locks  over  the  placid  brow,  and  saw  the  stillness  of  ever- 
lasting rest  gradually  steal  over  every  care-worn  feature. 
"Rest  to  thee,  weary  pilgrim,"  mused  her  saddened  soul; 
"  thy  goal  is  won.  Thou  hast  dropped  thy  staff'  of  age, 
for  the  strength  of  immortal  youth.  Thou  hast  exchanged 
thy  lowly  cabin  for  a  house  not  made  with  hands,  eternal 
in  the  heavens.  Death  had  no  terrors  for  thee,  aged 
Christian ;  thou  hast  long  waited  for  him  with  a  smile, 
and  chided  his  long  delay.  But  when  he  comes  to  the 

young — ah  me  ! — that  awful  dream  ! "     Again  a  cold 

shudder  ran   through   her  veins.     It  was   nothing  but  a 

C?  •— • 

dream, — the  last,  strong  impression  of  life,  reflected  from 
a  broken  mirror.  Yet  there  was  something  fn  her  great 
age,  associated  with  the  solemnities  of  a  dying  hour,  that 
invested  her  words  with  the  grandeur  of  prophecy ;  and 
the  visions  of  the  expiring  saint  have  sometimes  been 
strangely  realized.  Might  not  the  light  of  futurity  gleam 
through  the  loop-holes  of  life's  ruined  walls,  and  the 
shadows  of  earth,  as  well  as  the  glories  of  heaven,  break 
in  on  the  soul  ? 

While  this  solemn  scene  was  passing  in  the  cottage, 
Homer  was  reclining  languidly  on  a  sofa,  listening  to  the 
strains  which  had  always  a  soothing  influence  over  him, 
even  in  his  darkest  hours.  He  had  expressed  a  wish  for 
music,  and  Yictorine  sang  some  of  the  songs  he  used  to 
love.  She  remained,  while  the  others  attended  the  bed  of 
the  dyintr.  She  shrunk  from  the  sight  of  death,  and  she 
was  engaged  in  a  duty  to  the  living,  sweet,  though  mourn- 
ful to  her  soul.  She  could  not  refuse  a  request  of  Homer's, 
gentle  and  unexacting  as  he  now  was ;  and  her  voice, 
catching  the  key-note  from  her  feelings,  made  such  thrilling 
melody,  that  the  eyes  of  the  invalid  glistened  with  emotion. 
The  lamp  was  removed  into  the  shadow  of  the  chimney : 
so  that  the  rays  of  the  moon,  which  streamed  through  the 
casement,  were  seen  in  their  full  lustre ;  they  reflected 
the  window-sashes  and  the  softly-waving  trees  on  the 
carpet,  partially  illuminated  the  figure  of  Victorine,  and 
encircled,  with  a  halo  of  silvery  glory,  the  reclining 
brow  of  Homer.  The  soft  stillness  of  the  moonlit  hour, 
the  melancholy  sweetness  of  the  minstrelsy,  the  deep 


298  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

tranquillity  of  nature,  all  harmonized ;  and  there  was  music 
in  the  beating  of  the  hearts  which  kept  time  with  the 
vesper  hymn. 

"  Let  me  die  listening  to  a  strain  like  that,"  said  Homer, 
in  a  low  voice,  as  Victorine  paused,  arid  leaned  silently 
over  the  instrument.  "  Music  is  to  me  the  breath  of  the 
Deity.  It  flo\vs  into  my  soul,  and  diffuses  a  divine  glow 
and  warmth  that  I  cannot  express.  It  creates  an  unutter- 
able longing  for  celestial  communion.  It  comes  with 
tidings  from  the  invisible  world,  and  goes  with  the  sighs 
of  earth,  for  the  intercourse  of  angels."  He  looked  stead- 
fastly at  the  moon,  slowly,  serenely  gliding  on  her  cerulean 
sea,  then  turned  to  Victorine  with  a  deep  sigh.  "  What  a 
contrast  to  this  peaceful  scene  has  been  my  short  and 
troubled  life !  But  now  my  soul  is  in  harmony  with  the 
calm  spirit  of  the  universe.  I  cannot  describe  the  joy 
there  is  in  this  hush  of  the  passions,  after  a  day  of  tem- 
pests,— this  subsiding  of  the  stormy  billows.  O  Victo- 
rine !  when  I  think  of  the  anguish  I  have  caused  you  and 
all  I  love ;  how  I  have  perverted  the  gifts  of  God,  and 
turned  his  richest  blessings  into  curses,  I  am  ready  to 
exclaim,  '  It  is  better  that  I  die  than  live.'  And  still  that 
ejaculation  is  mine,  now  that  the  bitterness  of  remorse  is 
past,  and  the  consciousness  of  forgiveness  from  God  and 
man  has  healed  the  wounds  of  a  guilty  conscience;  I  still 
exclaim,  'It  is  better  that  I  die  than  live.'  You  would 
never  be  happy  with  Edmund,  while  you  feared  that  your 
happiness  might  be  my  misery.  You  would  both  sacri- 
fice yourselves  for  me.  But  the  blossoms  of  your  love 
may  bloom  sweetly  on  my  grave,  and  the  tear  that, 
perchance,  may  fall  to  my  memory,  will  not  mar  their 
brightness." 

"  Do  not  talk  thus,"  said  the  weeping  Victorine,  sitting 
down  by  his  side,  and  taking  his  hand  in  hers.  O 
Homer,  what  a  chill  hand  is  this  !  The  night-air  is  too 
cold  for  you." 

"  No :  I  do  not  feel  chill.  Do  not  move.  Let  me  sit 
thus.  Perhaps  it  is  the  last  time  I  shall  ever  clasp  your 
hand  in  mine,  and  gaze  upon  the  face  I  have  loved 
with  too  fond  idolatry.  I  have  resigned  you,  Victorine,-— 
resigned  all  earthly  things ;  but,  at  this  moment,  I  feel  a 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  299 

yearning  desire  to  recall  the  love  which  once  warmed  my 
life, — its  remembrance  comes  to  me,  so  like  a  dream  of 
heaven.  You  once  loved  me,  Victorine  ?" 

"I  love  you  still,"  cried  she  faintly,  and  bowing  her 
head  on  his  shoulder.  "I  have  had  a  divided  heart. 
When  the  dark  spell  was  on  you,  I  was  alienated  from 
you,  and  Edmund  rivalled  you  in  my  affections.  But 
now,  I  feel  a  tide  of  tenderness  rushing  over  me,  that 
almost  drowns  my  spirit.  Every  thing  is  forgotten  but 
the  love  you  have  borne  me,  and  the  sufferings  which  have 
expiated  every  wrong." 

"  This  is,  indeed,  an  earnest  of  heaven ;  a  bliss  I 
dreamed  not  of  tasting  on  earth,"  he  uttered,  passing  one 
arm  gently  round  her,  and  pressing  his  cheek  on  her 
silken  tresses.  Victorine's  head  drooped  lower  and  lower, 
till  her  tears  rained  on  his  breast.  A  soft,  fleeting  cloud 
floated  over  the  face  of  the  moon,  and  the  night-gale 
sighed  through  the  lattice.  Nature  sympathized  with 
love  and  sorrow,  and  wrapped  them  in  her  shadow,  as 
with  a  veil. 

Gradually  the  arm  which  clasped  Victorine  relaxed  its 
hold,  and  she  felt  a  quick  shudder  run  through  the  bosom 
on  which  her  cheek  was  pillowed.  She  raised  her  head, 
and  the  cloud  rolling  back  from  the  moon,  she  saw  that 
his  face  was  deadly  pale.  "  Speak,  Homer,"  she  cried  ; 
"you  are  ill, — you  are  faint.  Merciful  heavens  !  he  cannot 
speak  ! — Vivian — Frank — haste — haste — he  dies  !" 

The  young  men,  who  were  lingering  in  the  piazza, 
watching  for  the  sisters'  return,  heard  the  agonized  call 
of  Victorine,  and  rushed  to  her  assistance. 

"It  is  only  a  fainting  fit,"  cried  Frank,  trying  to  speak 
with  composure;  "he  will  soon  revive."  He  loosened 
his  vest,  and  bathed  his  temples  with  the  water  which 
Vivian  brought.  Victorine  knelt  by  him,  and  chafed 
his  chill  hands  in  hers,  calling  upon  him,  in  the  most 
impassioned  manner,  to  speak,  and  tell  her  that  he 
lived. 

"  I  live,"  he  murmured  ;  "  I  shall  live  for  ever." 

His  mother  and  Bessy,  who  had  hastened  on  in  advance 
of  the  rest,  now  entered  the  room,  and  beheld,  what  they 
believed,  the  fulfilment  of  the  prophetic  dream. 


300  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

"  O  my  God !"  cried  Bessy,  clinging  to  her  mother. 
"The  Master  is  come! — I  hear  Him  knocking  at  the 
door !" 

Mrs.  Worth  bent  calmly  over  her  son,  and  laid  her  cheek 
to  his.  A  supernatural  strength  girded  her  heart ;  she 
felt  ready  to  travel  with  him  through  the  "  valley  of  the 
shadow  of  death,"  and  she  feared  no  evil. 

"  How  is  it  with  thee,  my  son  ?  Did  the  summons  find 
thee  ready  ?" 

"  All  is  peace  here,  my  mother,"  said  he,  laying  his 
hand  on  his  heart.  And  his  face  looked  to  her  as  the  face 
of  an  angel, — so  unearthly  was  its  expression,  in  that  pale, 
silvery  light. 

Doctor  Leyton,  who  had  been  immediately  summoned, 
said  a  blood-vessel  in  the  heart  had  been  suddenly  rup- 
tured ;  and  that  the  skill  of  man  availed  nothing  in  such  a 
case. 

"Move  me  not,"  said  the  dying  youth,  as  they  attempted 
to  bear  him  to  a  couch.  "Let  me  lie  here,  in  this  blessed 
light.  Let  it  gild  the  shadows  of  death.  Edmund,  I  see 
thee  not." 

"  I  am  here,  my  brother,"  cried  he,  kneeling  by  the 
side  of  Victorine ;  "  but,  O  Homer,  I  cannot  be  parted 
from  thee." 

"The  living  must  part,  but  the  dead  will  meet,"  was 
the  low,  solemn  response.  "  Hinder  me  not,"  continued 
he,  in  a  fainter  tone;  "my  Saviour  chides  my  delay. 
Behold  he  stands  at  the  door  and  knocks.  His  head  is 
wet  with  dew,  and  his  locks  are  heavy  with  the  drops  of 
night." 

He  lay  silent  for  a  few  moments,  breathing  with  diffi- 
culty and  pain,  on  the  bosom  of  his  mother.  Pale,  but 
tearless,  she  supported  him  in  her  arms,  wiping  the  death- 
damps  from  his  brow,  and  pressing  her  lips  on  its  marble 
surface.  "  The  arms  of  a  mother  enfold  thee,  my  first- 
born," murmered  she,  "and  would  bear  thee  safely  over 
the  gulf  of  death.  But  the  arms  of  a  Saviour  are 
kinder  than  mine,  and  to  Him,  in  faith,  I  yield  thee.  I  am 
laying  up  my  treasures  in  heaven ;  by-and-by  I  shall  seek 
them  there." 

Her  voice  ceased,  though  her  lips  continued  to  move ; 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  301 

and  nothing  was  heard  but  the  sobbings  of  grief,  save  the 
breathing,  which  became  shorter  and  shorter.  A  slight 
convulsion  passed  over  the  features  of  the  dying  youth. 
"Victorine,"  cried  he,  wildly,  "why  hast  thou  left  me? 
You  promised,  in  death,  to  be  mine." 

These  were  the  last  words  that  ever  passed  the  lips  of 
Homer.  His  head  sunk  heavily  on  the  maternal  bosom. 
The  victim  of  misguided  passion  was  no  more. 

Calm  be  thy  rest,  thou  tempest-tost  and  weary.  Thou 
hast  said  that  the  sleep  of  the  grave  would  be  sweet.  The 
grassy  covering  that  will  wrap  thy  clay  shall  be  kept 
green  by  the  tears  of  affection,  and  thy  errors  be  remem- 
bered only  to  forgive. 

"  For  oh  !  how  softly  do  the  tints  return, 
Of  every  virtue,  sleeping  in  the  urn ;  • 
Frailties  are  buried  there ;  or,  if  thev  live, 
Remembrance  only  wakes  them  to  forgive." 


302  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 


CONCLUSION. 


THE  pale  leaves  of  autumn  strewed  the  grave  of  Homer, 
the  snows  of  winter  covered  it,  as  with  a  shroud,  and  the 
flowers  of  spring  began  to  shed  their  bloom  and  sweetness 
there.  Time  had  softened  the  bitterness  of  grief,  and  hope 
and  love  once  more  sprang  up  in  the  hearts  of  the  young 
dwellers  of  the  homestead.  It  was  hope,  however, 
chastened  by  experience,  and  love  made  holier  by  past 
sorrow.  Edmund,  "  who  was  now  the  only  son  of  his 
mother,"  refused  to  leave  her,  for  more  brilliant  prospects 
in  a  foreign  land.  "  My  father  and  elder  brother  are 
gone,"  said  he ;  "a  sacred  duty  devolves  on  me,  and  may 
God  only  bless  me,  as  I  prove  worthy  of  the  trust." 

Mr.  Selvvyn  did  not  attempt  to  shake  this  filial  resolu- 
tion, but  his  own  duties  were  pressing,  and  he  was  obliged 
to  hasten  his  departure,  already  too  long  deferred.  But 
.though  he  consented  to  leave  his  adopted  son,  he  was  not 
to  depart  alone.  He  was  to  bear  a  young  bride  from  the 
homestead  ;  and  Bessy,  too,  as  the  bride  of  Vivian,  was  to 
accompany  him,  whom  having  revered  so  long  as  a  second 
father,  she  thought  it  almost  impossible  she  could  ever  ad- 
dress by  the  more  familiar  name  of  brother. 

The  last  scenes  described  in  this  family  history  have 
been  of  a  dark  and  gloomy  character.  We  now  gladly 
turn  to  one,  where  sunshine  again  illumines  the  landscape 
of  life.  We  have  taken  them,  as  Aunt  Patty  did  the 
pieces  from  her  scrap-bag,  a  shred  of  black,  and  of  white, 
or  of  variegated  dyes ;  the  relic  of  a  wedding-dress,  or  a 
shroud,  just  as  it  happened ;  for  as  Aunt  Patty  herself  re- 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  303 

marked  :     "  Life  is  nothing  but  a  large  piece  of  patch- 
work.    Though  the  separate  parts  may  be  ever  so  different, 
put  them  all  together,  and  they  make  a  beautiful  whole 
For  they  are  all  fixed  by  the  hand  of  the  Almighty,  and 
His  works  are  all  ordered  aright." 

The  double  wedding  was  as  unostentatious  as  possible 
for  the  family  did  not  wish  to  blend  bridal  festivities  with 
the  weeds  of  mourning.  The  sisters  exchanged  their 
sable  dresses  for  robes  of  virgin  white,  but  they  wore  no 
other  decoration.  They  needed  none — they  were  clothed 
in  the  beauty  of  innocence,  and  youth,  and  love. 

Vivian  would  have  thought  his  happiness  incomplete, 
unless  shared  by  his  generous,  and  warm-hearted  friend, 
Frank  Wharton.  But  Bessy  could  not  regret  the  absence 
of  the  treacherous  Laura,  though  she  lamented  the  rash- 
ness and  folly  which  had  lately  made  her  an  alien  from 
her  maternal  home.  Laura,  vain  and  unprincipled,  had 
long  looked  with  envy  on  the  lovely  sisters,  whom  she 
tried  to  believe  inferior  to  herself,  and  whose  prosperity 
tinctured  with  wormwood  bitterness  the  blessings  bestowed 
on  herself.  Resolved  to  take  precedence  of  them  in  mar- 
riage, and  foolishly  hoping  to  mortify  them  by  the  act,  she 
eloped  with  a  showy  adventurer,  whose  addresses  her 
mother  had  forbidden  her  to  accept — a  heartless  libertine,  a 
reckless  gambler,  whose  wages  of  sin  were  squandered  as 
soon  as  they  were  won.  Laura's  hour  for  reflection  came, 
too  late  for  her  happiness,  but  not,  we  trust,  for  her  refor- 
mation. 

Aunt  Patty,  who  had  not  left  her  little  chamber  for  more 
than  two  years,  was  carried  down  stairs,  to  witness  the 
ceremony ;  and  old  Lady  Payne,  who  was  now  an  inmate 
of  the  family,  laid  aside  her  distaff  and  wheel,  and  sat  in 
the  family  circle.  The  only  ornaments  of  the  room,  added 
for  the  occasion,  were  garlands  of  flowers,  which  Estelle 
and  Frank  had  woven,  and  the  picture  of  Bessy,  which 
looked  down  from  the  walls,  like  the  guardian  angel  of  the 
household.  But,  fair  as  the  picture  was,  Bessy  was  still 
fairer ;  and  Frank,  though  he  had  magnanimously  given  her 
to  his  rival,  and  endeavoured  to  stifle  every  warmer  feel- 


304  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

ing  than  brotherly  regard,  could  not  help  wishing  that 
Vivian  had  never  risen,  a  radiant  star  on  the  horizon  of 
her  young  imagination,  and  extinguished  so  completely 
his  lesser  light.  His  eye  turned  from  Bessy,  to  the  pen- 
sive and  dark-haired  Victorine,  whose  once  resplendent 
countenance  was  now  softened  by  an  expression  of  melan- 
choly and  resignation,  exceedingly  touching  in  qne  so 
young  and  beautiful.  He  thought  of  the  buried  Homer, 
in  his  sad  and  lonely  grave,  and  a  cloud  passed  over  his 
sunny  face.  The  memory  of  the  dead  comes  with  double 
solemnity,  in  the  hour  of  bridal  joy. 

Let  us  hear  what  Aunt  Patty  says  of  the  wedding  to 
her  neighbour  old  Lady  Payne,  forgetting  that  she  cannot 
hear  the  low,  confidential  tone,  she  thinks  it  proper  to 
assume. 

"  It  does  not  seem  more  than  a  year  or  so,  since  my 
niece  Emma,  Mrs.  Worth  that  is,  stood  up  to  be  married ; 
and  Parson  Broomfield  said,  that  they  were  the  handsomest 
couple  that  he  ever  joined  together.  And  now  her  two 
daughters  are  old  enough  to  be  brides  themselves,  beauti- 
ful creatures  like  their  mother.  Bessy,  I  must  say,  is  even 
handsomer  than  her  mother  was,  but  she  don't  look  as  if 
she  was  made  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood  of  other  folks. 
I  never  saw  anybody  that  did  look  just  like  her.  I  think, 
now,  she's  big  enough  to  be  married ;  she  might  perhaps 
comb  her  hair  out  straight,  though  it  would  be  a  pity  to 
spoil  those  pretty  ringlets,  that  look  so  like  sunbeams,  on 
her  cheek  and  neck.  I  don't  wonder  Mr.  Vivian  looks  at 
her,  as  if  he  loved  her  so.  Who  could  help  it?  Well,  I 
always  thought  she  and  Frank  would  make  a  match,  but 
the  Almighty  fixed  it  another  way." 

Aunt  Patty  paused  to  take  a  pinch  of  snufF,  out  of  a 
new  gold  snuff-box,  presented  her  that  morning  by  Mr. 
Selwyn.  She  may  be  pardoned,  if  she  did  rap  it  long  and 
loud,  and  find  unusual  difficulty  in  gathering  the  snuff  in 
her  fingers  ;  for  it  is  no  wonder  she  wanted  to  display  such 
a  gift.  She  then  continued  her  soliloquy,  as  well  satisfied 
as  if  her  deaf  companion  shared  her  thoughts. 

"  Just  to  think  of  Emma,  that  young  thing,  marrying  a 
man  old  enough  to  be  her  father!  He's  a  fine,  noble- 
looking  man  though,  and  carries  his  head  as  high  as  a 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  305 

prince.  And  he's  a  kind,  good  gentleman,  too,  for  he 
helped  to  bring  me  down  stairs,  with  his  own  hands ;  and 
then  he  gave  me  this  fine  snuff-box  of  solid  gold,  all 
marked  and  figured  up,  a  present  fit  for  a  queen.  Poor 
Victorine  !  I  saw  her  turn  away  just  now,  to  hide  a  tear 
that  stands  in  her  eye.  She's  thinking  of  Homer,  but  she 
loves  Edmund  for  all  that.  By-and-by,  there  will  be 
another  wedding,  and  it  won't  do  any  harm  to  Homer,  for 
he's  where  there  are  '  no  more  marryings,  and  givings  in 
marriage ;  but  where  he  is  like  the  angels  of  God  in 
heaven.'  I  do  hope,  and  believe  he  is.  What  a  strange 
world  this  is  !  Everybody  loving  and  marrying  !  Well ! 
I  think  people  who  live  by  themselves  are  the  best  off, 
after  all — they  are  so  quiet;  and  then  when  the  Lord 
calls  them  away,  they  don't  leave  such  a  big  gap  behind 
them." 

At  the  close  of  the  evening,  the  scrap  bed-quilt  was 
produced,  which  had  been  the  admiration  of  so  many  eyes, 
and  which  Aunt  Patty  had  promised  to  the  niece  who 
should  marry  first.  She  wae  in  a  dilemma,  for  both 
nieces  were  married  at  the  same  time.  To  be  sure,  Emma 
was  the  eldest,  but  she  always  thought  Bessy  would  be 
its  owner,  and  she  did  nqt  like  to  give  up  her  original 
opinion. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  to  do,  Aunt  Patty,"  said  Frank ; 
"keep  it  for  Estelle,  who  is  really  the  lawful  proprietor, 
for  she  made  it,  with  her  own  precious  little  fingers." 

Both  Emma  and  Bessy  sanctioned  the  decision  of  Frank, 
which  they  asserted  was  dictated  by  the  wisdom  of 
Solomon. 

"  I  shall  never  live  to  see  the  dear  child  married,"  re- 
plied Aunt  Patty,  shaking  her  head  sorrowfully.  "  When 
she  wears  her  bridal  robes,  I  shall  be  wrapped  in  my 
shroud,  and  nobody  will  remember  any  thing  about  poor, 
old  Aunt  Patty." 

"Don't  talk  so,  Aunt  Patty,"  cried  Estelle,  her  eyes 
filling  with  tears ;  "  you  know  we  never  can  forget  you. 
Besides,  I  never  mean  to  be  married.  Emma  and  Bessy 
can't  love  mother  half  as  well  as  I  do,  or  they  never  would 
be  willing  to  go  away,  so  far  off*." 
20 


306  'UNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

"  You  will  think  differently,  several  years  hence,"  said 
Frank.  "  I'll  wait  for  you  myself,  if  you  will  promise  to 
marry  me,  when  you  are  old  enough.  You  know  how 
often  we  have  gathered  flowers,  and  made  charades  and 
conundrums  together.  You  never  will  see  anybody  you 
will  like  as  well  as  you  do  me,  Estelle." 

"I  never  expect  to,"  answered  she,  with  a  glow  of 
gratitude,  at  the  remembrance  of  his  participation  in  her 
childish  pleasures.  "  I  love  you  almost  as  well  as  I  do 
Edmund.  But  that  isn't  the  kind  of  love  people  feel, 
when  they  marry  each  other." 

"  What  kind  is  that,  Estelle  ?"  asked  Frank,  looking 
towards  the  lovely  brides. 

"  I  don't  know  exactly,"  replied  she,  blushing  at  finding 
herself  a  poorer  metaphysician  than  she  thought  she  was  ; 
"  but  look  at  Emma  and  Bessy,  and  Mr.  Selwyn,  and 
Mr.  Vivian,  and  see  how  different  they  look  at  each  other, 
from  what  you,  and  I,  and  Aunt  Patty  do.  They  take 
little  short  looks,  and  a  great  parcel  of  them,  but  we  look, 
and  have  done  with  it." 

Frank  laughed  outright.  A  philosopher  could  hardly 
have  explained  better  the  difference  between  the  electric 
glances  of  love,  and  the  calm  gaze  of  friendship. 

When  he  told  Estelle  to  promise  to  marry  him,  when 
she  was  old  enough,  he  only  gave  utterance  to  a  sportive 
thought.  But  as  he  reflected,  he  grew  serious.  He 
thought,  what  a  charming  thing  it  would  be,  to  be  united 
to  a  sister  of  Bessy's,  who  would  be  only  less  beautiful 
than  herself;  to  make  the  first  impression  on  her  young 
and  innocent  heart ;  to  mould  the  virgin  wax  of  her  juve- 
nile affections,  and  stamp  upon  its  softened  surface  the 
image  of  himself. 

(One  sentence  in  parentheses : — Frank  did  indeed  wait 
for  Estelle,  who,  when  she  became  older,  really  supplanted 
Bessy  in  the  heart  of  her  early  admirer.) 

And  Victorine ! — Was  Aunt  Patty  a  true  prophet  ? 
Was  the  tear  in  her  eye,  for  the  buried  Homer ;  and  the 
smile  on  her  lip,  for  the  living  Edmund  ?  Yes  !  it  was 
even  so.  Memory  and  hope  met  in  her  heart,  and  while 
the  shadows  of  the  one  rolled  over  its  surface,  the  light  of 


AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG.  307 

the  other  tinged  them  with  golden  lustre.  Never,  since 
the  death  of  Homer,  had  Edmund  spoken  to  her  other- 
wise than  as  a  brother  might  address  a  sister.  They  had 
stood  together  over  his  grave,  when  the  winds  of  autumn 
strewed  the  mourning  leaves  on  the  earth ;  they  had 
talked  of  him,  by  the  warmth  of  the  winter's  fireside,  and 
amidst  the  sweetness  of  spring's  opening  flowers.  This 
night,  they  named  him  not ;  they  spoke  of  the  bridal 
scetie,  the  morrow's  parting,  and  the  void  that  would  be 
made  in  the  family  circle. 

"  What  shall  we  do,  without  Emma  and  Bessy  ?"  said 
Victorine.  "Oh!  desolate  will  be  the  dwelling  of  Moina," 
added  she,  fixing  her  dark,  melancholy  eyes  on  the  pale 
face  of  Mrs.  Worth. 

•'  You  must  be  Emma  and  Bessy  in  one,"  replied  Ed- 
mund, "  and  the  dwelling  where  you  remain,  Victorine, 
never  can  be  desolate.  My  mother  has  no  daughter 
whom  she  loves  better  than  yourself." 

"  And  yet  I  have  brought  her  much  sorrow,"  said  Vic- 
torine, sadly.  "  I  fear,  I  was  born  to  cast  a  cloud  over  all 
who  love  me." 

"  A  cloud  has  been  resting  over  us  long,"  said  Edmund, 
in  a  low  voice,  intended  for  her  ear  alone ;  "  but  it  is  in 
your  power  to  bring  back  sunshine  to  our  hearts  and 
home." 

Victorine  blushed.  The  look  he  bent  upon  her  was 
such  as  she  had  met  beneath  the  oak  of  the  mountain, 
when  passion  suddenly  rent  the  veil  that  covered  it,  and 
revealed  its  hidden  fires.  Her  heart  thrilled  at  the  re- 
membrance, but  hope,  in  its  triumph,  soon  banished  me- 
mory. 

"Victorine,"  continued  Edmund,  "I  have  loved  you,  in 
sorrow  and  remorse,  when  I  thought  to  love  you  was  a 
crime.  I  have  loved  you  in  sadness  and  doubt,  while  I 
looked  upon  you  as  bearing  in  your  bosom  a  widowed 
heart.  I  love  you  now,  in  hope  and  faith,  and,  in  this 
scene  of  wedded  happiness,  I  dare  to  jook  forward  to  years 
of  joy,  with  you." 

Victorine  tried  to  answer,  but  the  words  died  on  her 
trembling  lips.  There  was  no  need,  however,  of  her 
speaking,  for  as  Aunt  Patty  often  said,  "  Victorine  had  a 


308  AUNT  PATTY'S  SCRAP-BAG. 

tongue  in  her  eyes,  that  told  every  thing,  whether  she 
willed  or  no."  To  quote  another  of  Aunt  Patty's  sayings, 
which  were  almost  as  celebrated  as  the  proverbs  of  Solo- 
mon :  "  The  Lord  had  made  Edmund  and  Victorine  for 
each  other,  in  His  own  Almightiness,  and  man  could  never 
keep  them  apart." 

The  sayings  of  Aunt  Patty  are  ended — her  scrap-bag 
given  to  the  world. 


THE    END. 


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Valerie,                                  50 

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The  Rebel  Bride,        -        25 

Manoeuvring  Mother,          ;!"> 
Baronet's  Daughters,  -        L'  > 
Young  Prima  Donna,          25 
Old  Dower  House,       -        25 
Hyacinthe,          -       -        25 
Alice  Seymour,                   25 
Mary  Seaham,                    50 
Passion  and  Principle,        50 

Guy  rawkes,       •        •        50 
The  Star  Chamber,     -        50 
Newgate  Calendar,      •        60 
Old  St.  Paul's,     -        -        60 
Mysteries  of  the  Court 
of  Queen  Anne,               CO 
Mysteries  of  the  Court 
of  the  Stuarts,                  50 
Life  of  Davy  Crockett,        60 

Ralph  Kuunion,         •        25 
The  Flying  Artillerist,        25 
Old  Put,                               25 
Wau-nan-gpe,                     2f 
The  Guerilla  Clnef,    -       60 

MAITLAND'S   WORKS. 
The  Watchman,         -    1  00 

D'lSRAELI'S  WORKS. 

Life  of  Henry  Thomas,       25 

The  Wanderer,  -        -    I  00 

Henrietta  Temple,      •        60 

Dick  Turpin,       -        -        Z-'i 

Mary  of  an  Old  Doctor,  1  00 

Vivian  Grey,                         60 

Desperadoes  New  World,    25 

The  Lawyer's  Story,  -    1  00 

Venetia,                               60 

Ninon  Do  L'Knclos,     •        2-~> 

Above  iu  cloth,  $1.25  eaeh. 

Young  Duke,                      38 
Miriam  Alroy,    -        -        :,s 

Life  of  Arthur  Spring,        25 
Lifo  of  Grace  O'.Malley,       I'.s 

EUGENE  SUE'S. 

Contarini  Fleming,    -       £8 

Windsor  Castle,         -        60 

Martin,  the  Foundliag,  1  00 

LANGUAGES. 

GREEN  ON  GAMBLING 

Wandering  Jew,          -    1  00 
Mv>lerit;s  of  Paris,      •    1  00 

French  without  a  Master,  25 

Gambling  Exposed,    -    1  00 

First  Love,           -        -        25 

Spanish  without  a  Master,  25 

Gambling  Unmasked,     1  00 

Woman's  Love,           •       25 

German  without  a  Master,  25 

Secret  Band  of  Brothers,  1  00 

Man  of-WarV.Man,     •       25 

Italian  without  a  Master,  25 

The  Reformed  Gambler,  1  00 

Ffinalf)  Bluebeard,     -        26 

Latin  without  a  Master,    25 

Above  in  cloth,  $1.20  eack. 

Ilaoul  du  Surville,      •       2i 

T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 


COOK  BOOKS. 

BY  BEST  AUTHORS. 

QUARTER  BOOKS. 

Miss     Leslie's     New 
Cookery  Book,        -    1  25 
Widdificld's  New  Cook 

CurrerLyle,       -       -    1  00 
Modern  Chivalry,  cloth  i  2-5 
Columbia,  the  Beauti- 

Mysteries of  a  Convent,     25 
Female  Life  in  New  York,  35 

A  crime    llr.-v-                                         OK 

Book,       -        -        -    1  00 

ful  Blonde,      -        -    1  00    y?:,'Vt.  cValr 

Mr.s.  Hale's  Fonr  Thou- 

Life  and   Beauties  of              n^;.  *r  «'  pi,,-uiM,n          «* 

ta.ua  &  Five  Receipts,  1  00 
Miss  Leslie's  New  K» 

Fanny  Fern.    -        -    1  00 
The  Pride  of  Life,      -    1  00 

Emigrant  Squire,       -        25 
Monk,  by  Lewis,         -        25 

o  ipts  for  Cooking,  -     1  00 
Vn  Hale's  New  Cook     • 

Autobiography  of  an 

Orphan  Girl,            -    )  00 

Beautiful  French  Girl,       25 
Mysteries  of  IVillam,          25 

Bcok,       -        -        -    1  00 
ARTHUR'S  WORKS. 

The  Student,       -        -    1  CK 
Adelaide  Wai  d  grave,          6C 
Greatest  Plague  ufLife,       b>. 

Abcdnego,  by  Mr*.  Gortk  25 
The  Orphan  Child,    -       35 
Gho^t  Stories,      -        -        25 

The  Two  Brides.          -        25 

Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  a^ 

Madison's    KxpoMtion 

Love  in  a  Cottage,       •        25 

it  Is,         -       -        -    1  00 

of  Odd  FeliowsLip,  -        25 

Love  in  High  Life,      -        25 
Year  after  Marriage,  -        25 
The  Lndv  at  Home,     -        25 

Tom  Racquet,     -        -        60 
Mysteries  of  Three  Cities,    60 
Red   Indians  of  New- 

Abbey of  Innismoyle,        25 
Gliddon's  Ancient  "Egypt,  25 
Josephine,            -        -        25 

Cecilia  Howard.            -        25 

foundland,       -        -        50 

liell  Rr&ndon,                      25 

Orphan  Children.        -        25 
Debtor's  Daughter,     -        25 

Roman  Traitor,  -        -    1  00 
Salathiel.  by  Croley,  -        60 

Philip  in  Search  of  a  Wifc^  25 
Admiral's  Daughter,  -        25 

Mary  Moret  >n.             -        25 
Th""Divorced  Wif«,    -        25 

Aristocracy,         -        •        60 
Inquisition  in  Spain.  -        60 

liody  the  Ko'ver,          -        25 
Jenny  Ambrose,          -        25 

1'riile  and  Prudence,  -        25 

Flirtations  in  America,      50 

Moreion  Mall,                      25 

Agues,  or  the  Possessed,    25 
Lucy  Sandford.            -        25 

The  Coquette,      -        -        60 
Arrah  Neil,  by  James,        50 

Agricultural  Chemistry,     25 
Animal  Chemistry,     -        25 

The  Banker's  Wife,    -        25 
The  Two  Merchants,  -        25 

Life  in  the  South,       -        50 
Sketches  in  Ireland,  -        50 

Liebig's  Potato  Disease,      25 
Hose  Warriugton,      -       25 

Insubordination.         -        25 

Whitehall.           -        -        £0 

L:tdy  Attamout,          -        25 

Tria".  and  Triumph,    -        25 

Whitefriars,          -        -        50 

The    Deformed,    and 

The  Iron  Rule.            -        25 

Wild  Sports  of  West,  -        60 

Charity  Sister,        -        25 

The  Old  Astrologer,    -        25 

Cabin  and  Parlor,       -        60 

Ryan's    Mysteries    of 

The  Seamstress,           •        25 

Romish  Confessional,          f-0 

Marriage,                          25 

USEFUL  BOOKS. 

Father  Clement.          -        60 
Fortune  Hunter,        .        38 

Uncle  Tom  in  England,      25 

Lardner's  One  Thou- 
sand and  Ten  Things 

Gt-nevra,                              50 
Miser's  Heir.        -        -        60 

CHRISTY  &  WHITE'S 

Worth  Kuowiug,    -        25 

Victims  of  Amusements,    '•',', 

SONG  BOOKS. 

How  to  get  Rich,        -        25 

Henry  Clay  s  Portrait,    100 

Christy    and   Wood'i 

Etiquette  for  All.  Cloth,    75 
Five  Languages  with- 

Siege of  Londonderry,        <*T 
The  Orphan  Sisters,   -        3-i 

Complete  Songster,         13 
Melodecn  Song  Book,        12 

out  a  Master.  Cloth,   1  25 

Two  Lovers,                       60 

Plantation  Melodies,  •        12 

P  icket  Library  of  Use- 
ful Knowledge,        -        60 
Lady's  Work  Table  Hook,  50 
Gentlemen's  Etiquette,       25 
Ladies'  Ktiquette,        -        25 
Kitchen  Gardener,      -        25 

ADVENTURES. 
Adventures  in  Africa,    1  00 
Ad  ventures  of  Ned  Lorn,  1  00 
Don  Quixotte,      -        •     1  00 
Wild  Oats  Sown  Abroad,    60 

Ethiopian  Song  Book,        13 
Serenader's  Song  Book,      13 
Complete  Ethiopian  Me- 
lodies, by  Christy  and 
White.    Cloth,           -    75 

Complete  Florist        -        25 
Knowlson's  Horse  Doctor,  25 

Life  and  Adventures  of 
Paul  Periwinkle,   -        50 

12  CENT  BOOKS. 

Knowlson's  Cow  Doctor,     25 

GEORGE  SANDS' 

Seven  Poor  Traveler*,       13 

irthur's  Receipts  for 
Putting    np    Fruits 

First  and  True  Love,  -       60 

Iniliona                                                     flO 

The  Schoolboy,           -        13 
Lizzie  Leigh,                       12 

and  Vegetables    in 
Summer  to  Keep,    -        12 

nuiana. 
The  Corsair,        -       -       25 

Christmas  Carol,         -        12 
The  Chimes,        -        -        13 

CTIERSON  BENNETTS. 
The  Border  Rover,    -    1  00 
Clara  Moreland,          -       60 
Fiola,           ...        60 
Bride  of  Wilderness,  -       50 

C.  J.  PETERSON'S. 
Mabel  ;  or,   Darkness 
and  Dawn,      -        -    1  00 
Kate  Aylesford,           •    1  00 
Cruising  in  Last  War,        60 

Cricket  on  the  Hearth,        13 
Itattle  of  Life.      -        -        13 
Haunted  Man,                     IS 
Sister  Rose,          •        •        13 
Yellow  Mask,      -       -       13 
Mother  A  SU-p  Mother,       13 

Ellen  Norbury,            -        60 
Forged  Will,        -       -       60 

Grace  Dudley,     •                 .**) 
Valley  Farm,      -       •       2o 

A  Wife's  Story,   -       -       13 
Odd  Fellowship  ExpoMd,    1: 

Kate  Clarendon.         •        60 

SERMONS. 

Mormonism  Kx  potted,         13 

Pioneer's  Daughter.    -       60 

America's  Mission,     -       25 

Duties  of  Woman,  by 

Heirew.  of  Bellefonte; 
and  Walde-Warren,        50 

Thankfulness  and  Cha- 
racter,                      -        25 

Lucretia  Mott,        -       13 
The  Holly-Tiee  Inn,-       13 

BULWER'S  NOVELS. 

Politics  in  Religion,    •        12 
DR.  HOLLICK'S. 

Life  of  Jehu  Mafflt,    -        13 
Euchre  and  i  .-  LAWS,          13 
Throne  of  Iniquity,   • 

Falkland                     -       26 
The  Oxonians,             -       25 

Anatomy  4  Physiology,  1  00 
Dr.   llol'lick's    Family 

Dr.  Berg  on  Je*uiU,  -       IS 
Dr.  Berg's  Answer  »« 

Calderon.  th»  Courtier       12 

Physician,        •       •       '-&        «i«i«*»«w|,  **«»•«-,  _  — 

T.  B.  PETERSON 

102  Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia, 

HAS   JUST    PUBLISHED    AND    FOR    SALE 

STEREOTYPE  EDITIONS  OF  THE  FOLLOWING  WORKS, 

Which  will  be  found  to  be  the  Best  and  Latest  Publications,  by  th« 
Most  Popular  and  Celebrated  Writers  in  the  World. 

Every  work  published  for  Sale  here,  either  at  Wholesale  or  Eetail. 

All  Books  in  this  Catalogue  will  be  sent  to  any  one  to  any  place,  per  mail, 

free  of  postage,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


MRS.  SOUTHWORTH'S  Celebrated  WORKS. 

With  a  beautiful  Illustration  in  each  volume. 

RETRIBUTION.    A  TALE  OF  PASSION.    By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N. 

Southworth.      Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover.      Price    On« 

Dollar  ;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 
INDIA.  THE  PEARL  OF  PEARL  RIVER.  By  Mrs.  Ewma  D  E.  N. 

Southworth.    Complete  in  two  large  volumes,  paper  cover.    Price  One 

Dollar;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 
THE  MISSING  BRIDE;  OR,  MIRIAM  THE  AVENGER.  By  Mrs. 

Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth.     Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover. 

Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

THE  LOST  HEIRESS.  By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth.  Being 
a  work  of  powerful  interest.  Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover. 
Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

THE  WIFE'S  VICTORY;  AND  NINE  OTHER  NOUVELLETTES. 
By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth.  Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper 
cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

THE  CURSE  OF  CLIFTON.  By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth. 
Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in 
one  volume,  cloth,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

THE  DISCARDED  DAUGHTER.  By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth. 
Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in 
one  volume,  cloth,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

THE  DESERTED  WIFE.  By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Southworth.  Com- 
plete in  two  volumes,  paper  cover.  Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in  one 
volume,  cloth,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

THE  INITIALS.  A  LOVE  STORY  OF  MODERN  LIFE.  By  a  daugh- 
ter  of  the  celebrated  Lord  Erskine,  formerly  Lord  High  Chancellor  of 
England.  It  will  be  read  for  generations  to  come,  and  rank  by  the  side 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  celebrated  novels.  Two  volumes,  paper  cover. 
Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in  on*  volume,  cloth,  for  $1.25. 

The  whole  of  the  above  are  also  published  in  a  very  fine  style,  t-ouna 
V»  full  Crimson,  gilt  edges,  gilt  sides,  full  gilt  backs,  etc.,  and  make  voj 
tUgant  and  beautiful  presentation  books,  Price  Twa  Dollars  a  copy. 


T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS.      3 
CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 

The  best  and  most  popular  in  the  world.     Ten  different  editions.    Ho 

Library  can  be  complete  without  a  Sett  of  these  Works. 

Preprinted  from  the  Author's  last  Editions. 

"PETERSON'S"  is  the  only  complete  and  uniform  edition  of  Charl* 
Dickens'  works  published  in  America;  they  are  reprinted  from  the  original 
London  editions,  and  are  now  the  only  edition  published  in  this  country. 
No  library,  either  public  or  private,  can  be  complete  without  having  in  it 
•  complete  sett  of  the  works  of  this,  the  greatest  of  all  living  authors. 
Every  family  should  possess  a  sett  of  one  of  the  editions.  The  cheap 
edition  is  complete  in  Twelve  Volumes,  paper  cover;  either  or  all  of  which 
can  be  had  separately.  Price  Fifty  cenU  each.  The  following  are  their 
names. 

DAVID  COPPERFIELD,  DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES.     Con- 

NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY,  taining  The  Seven  Poor  Travellers. 

PICKWICK  PAPERS,  Nine  New  Stories  by  the  Christmas 

DOMBEY  AND  SON,  Fire.     Hard  Times.     Lizzie  Leigh. 

MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT,  The  Miner's  Daughters,  etc. 

BARNABY  RUDGE,  CHRISTMAS    STORIES.    Contain. 

OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP,  ing— A    Christmas    Carol.       The 

SKETCHES  BY  "BOZ,"  Chimes.     Cricket  on  the  Hearth. 

OLIVER  TWIST  Battle  of  Life.     Haunted  Man,  and 

BLEAK  HOUSE,  Pictures  from  Italy. 

A  complete  sett  of  the  above  edition,  twelve  volumes  in  all,  will  be  sent 
to  any  one  to  any  place,  free  of  postage,  for  Five  Dollars. 


COMPLETE  LIBRARY  EDITION. 

In  FIVE  large  octavo  volumes,  with  a  Portrait,  on  Steel,  of  Charles 
Dickens,  containing  over  Four  Thousand  very  large  pages,  handsomely 
printed,  and  bound  in  various  styles. 
Volume  1  contains  Pickwick  Papers  and  Curiosity  Shop. 

"        2    do.        Oliver  Twist,  Sketches  by  "  Boz,"  and  Barnaby  Rudge. 

"        3     do.        Nicholas  Nickleby  and  Martin  Chuzzlewit. 

*        4    do.        David  Copperfield,  Dombey  and  Son,  Christmas  Stories, 

and  Pictures  from  Italy. 

6  do.  Bleak  House,  and  Dickens'  New  Stories.  Containing 
— The  Seven  Poor  Travellers.  Nine  Ne^  Stories 
by  the  Christmas  Fire.  Hard  Times  Liist* 
LeigL.  The  Miner's  Daughters,  and  Fortun* 
Wildred,  etc. 

Me*  of  a  complete  sett    Bound  in  Black  cloth,  full  gilt  Wk,        $7  6* 
«  <»  "  "          scarlet  cloth,  extra,  8  M 

«  "  «  "  library  sheep,  9  Of 

•*  "  "  "  half  turkey  morocco,  11  00 

M  tt  u  a          half  ^i^  antique,  15  <)• 

Rliutrcued  Edition  u  dttsribed  on  next  page. 


4      T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 
ILLUSTRATED  EDITION  OF  DICKENS'  WORKS. 

This  edition  is  printed  on  very  thick  and  fine  white  paper,  and  is  pro. 
ftisely  illustrated,  with  all  the  original  illustrations  by  Cruikshank,  Alfred 
Crowquill,  Phiz,  etc.,  from  the  original  London  edition,  on  copper,  ste«l, 
and  weod.  Each  volume  contains  a  novel  complete,  and  may  be  had  in 
complete  setts,  beautifully  bound  in  cloth,  for  Eighteen  Dollars  for  th« 
fett  in  twelve  volumes,  or  any  volume  will  be  sold  separately,  as  follows: 

NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY,  $1  50 
MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT,  1  50 
DAVID  COPPERFIELD,  1  50 
DOMBEY  AND  SON,  1  50 

CHRISTMAS  STORIES,  1  50 
DICKENS'  NEW  STORIES,  1  50 


HOUSE,        Price,  $1  50 
PICKWICK  PAPERS,  1  50 

OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP,      1  50 
OLIVER  TWIST,  1  50 

SKETCHES  BY  "BOZ,"       1  50 
15ARNABY  RUDGE,  1  50 


Price  of  a  complete  sett  of  the  Illustrated  Edition,  in  twelve 

vols.,  in  black  cloth,  gilt  back,  $18,00 

Price  of  a  complete  sett  of  the  Illustrated  Edition,  in  twelve 

voL«.,  in  full  law  library  sheep,  $24,00 

Price  of  a  complete  sett  of  the  Illustrated  edition,  in  twelve 

vols.,  in  half  turkey  Morocco,  $27,00 

Price  of  a  complete  sett  of  the  Illustrated  Edition,  in  twelve 

vols.,  in  half  calf,  antique,  $36,00 

All  subsequent  works  />i/  Charles  Dickens  will  be  issued  in  uniform  style  wilk 
all  the  previous  ten  different  edition*. 

CAPTAIN  MARRYATT'S  WORKS. 

Either  of  which  can  be  had  separately.  Price  of  all  except  the  four  last 
'«  25  cents  each.  They  are  printed  on  the  finest  white  paper,  and  each 
forms  one  large  octavo  volume,  complete  in  itself. 

PETER  SIMPLE.  NAVAL  OFFICER. 

JACOB  FAITHFUL.  PIRATE  AND  THREE  CUTTERS. 

THE  PHANTOM  SHIP.  SNARLEYYOW ;  or,  the  Dog-Fiend. 

MIDSHIPMAN  EASY.  PERCIVAL  KEENE.     Price  50  cts. 

KING'S  OWN.  POOR  JACK.     Price  50  cents. 

NEWTON  FORSTER.  SEA  KING.    200  pages.    Price  50 

JAPHET  IN  SEARCH   OF  cents. 

A  FATHER.  VALERIE.    His  last  NoveL    Pric« 

PACHA  OF  MANY  TALES.  5U  cents. 

ELLEN  PICKERING'S  NOVELS. 

Either  of  which  can  be  had  separately.  Price  25  cents  each.  They  ar* 
printed  on  the  finest  white  paper,  and  each  forms  one  large  octavo  volume, 
complete  in  itself,  neatly  bound  in  a  strong  paper  cover. 

THE  ORPHAN  NIECE.  THE  HEIRESS. 

KATE  WALSINGHAM.  PRINCE  AND  PEDLER. 

THE  POOR  COUSIN.  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

ELLEN  WAREHAM.  THE  FRIGHT. 

THE  QUIET  HUSBAND.  NAN  DARRELL. 

WHO  SHALL  BE  HEIR?  THE  SQUIRE. 

THE  SECRET  FOE,  THE  EXPECTANT. 

AGN.SS  SERLE.  THE  GRUMBLER.  50  ota. 


T.  B-  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUB1ICATIOKS. 
MRS.  CAROLINE  LEE  HENTZ'S  WORKS. 

COURTSHIP  AND  MARRIAGE;  OR,  THE  JOYS  AND  SORROWS 
OF  AMERICAN  LIFE.  With  a  Portrait  of  the  Author.  Complete 
in  two  large  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one 
volume,  cloth  gilt,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cent*. 

THE  PLANTER'S  NORTHERN  BRIDE.  With  illustrations.  Com- 
plete  in  two  large  volumes,  paper  cover,  600  pages,  price  One  Dollar, 
or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-fire  cent*. 

LINDA;  OR,  THE  YOUNG  PILOT  OF  THE  BELLE  CREOLE.  Com- 
plete in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  on* 
volume,  cloth  gilt,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

ROBERT  GRAHAM.  The  Sequel  to,  and  continuation  of  Linda.  Be- 
ing  the  last  book  but  one  that  Mrs.  Hentz  wrote  prior  to  her  death. 
Complete  in  two  large  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or 
bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cenU. 

RENA;  OR,  THE  SNOW  BIRD.  A  Tale  of  Real  Life.  Complete  in  two 
volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume, 
cloth  gilt,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cents. 

MARCUS  WARLAND ;  OR,  THE  LONG  MOSS  SPRING.  A  Tale  of 
the  South.  Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar, 
or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cent*. 

LOVE  AFTER  MARRIAGE  ;  and  other  Stories.  Complete  in  two  vol. 
nmes,  paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth 
gilt,  for  One  Dollar  and  Twenty-five  cenU. 

EOLINE;  OR,  MAGNOLIA  VALE.  Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper 
cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1  25. 

THE  BANISHED  SON;  and  other  Stories.  Complete  in  two  volume*, 
paper  cover,  price  One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1  25. 

HELEN  AND  ARTHUR.  Complete  in  two  volumes,  paper  cover,  price 
One  Dollar,  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth  gilt,  $1  25. 

The  whole  of  the  above  are  also  published  in  a  very  fine  stylo,  bound 
in  the  very  best  and  most  elegant  and  substantial  manner,  in  full  Crimson, 
with  beautifully  gilt  edges,  full  gilt  sides,  gilt  backs,  etc.,  etc.,  making 
them  the  best  and  most  acceptable  books  for  presentation  at  the  price, 
published  in  the  country.  Price  of  either  one  in  this  style,  Two  Dollars. 

T.  S.  ARTHUR'S  WORKS. 

Either  of  which  can  be  had  separately.  Price  25  cents  each.  They  art 
the  most  moral,  popular  and  entertaining  in  the  world.  There  arc  M 
better  books  to  place  in  the  hands  of  the  young.  All  will  profit  by  thafe. 

TEAR  AFTER  MARRIAGE.  TRIAL  AND  TRIUMPH. 

THE  DIVORCED  WIFE.  THE  ORPHAN  CHILDREN. 

THE  BANKER'S  WIFE.  THE  DEBTOR'S  DAUGHTER 

PRIDE  AND  PRUDENCE.  INSUBORDINATION. 

CECILIA  HOWARD.  LUCY  SANDFORD. 

MARY  MORETON.  AGNES,  or  the  Possewed. 

LOVE  IN  A   COTTAGE.  THE  TWO  BRIDES. 

LOVE  IN  HIGH  LIFE.  THE  IRON  RULE. 

THE  TWO  MERCHANTS.  THE  OLD  ASTROLOGER, 

LADY  AT  HOME.  THE  SEAMSTRESS. 


6      T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 
CHARLES  LEVER'S  NOVELS. 

CHARLES  O'MALLEY,  the  Irish  Dragoon.  By  Charles  Lever.  Com- 
plete in  one  large  octavo  volume  of  324  pages.  Price  Fifty  cents ;  or 
an  edition  on  liner  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One 
Dollar. 

THE  KNIGHT  OF  GWYNNE.  A  tale  of  the  time  of  the  Union.  By 
Charles  Lever.  Complete  in  one  fine  octavo  volume.  Price  Fifty 
cents;  or  an  edition  on  finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated. 
Price  One  Dollar. 

JACK  HINTON,  the  Guardsman.  By  Charles  Lever.  Complete  in  one 
large  octavo  volume  of  400  pages.  Price  Fifty  cents ;  or  an  edition 
on  finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One  Dollar. 

TOM  BURKE  OF  OURS.  By  Charles  Lever.  Complete  in  one  large 
octavo  volume  of  300  pages.  Price  Fifty  cents ;  or  an  edition  on 
finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One  Dollar. 

ARTHUR  0  LEARY.  By  Charles  Lever.  Complete  in  one  large  octavo 
volume.  Price  Fifty  cents ;  or  an  edition  on  finer  paper,  bound  in 
cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One  Dollar. 

KATE  O'DONOGHUE.  A  Tale  of  Ireland.  By  Charles  Lever.  Com- 
plete in  one  large  octavo  volume.  Price  Fifty  cents ;  or  an  edition 
on  finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One  Dollar. 

HORACE  TEMPLETON.  By  Charles  Lever.  This  is  Lever's  New 
Book.  Complete  in  one  large  octavo  volume.  Price  Fifty  cents ;  or 
an  edition  on  finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price  One  Dollar. 

HARRY  LORREQUER.  By  Charles  Lever,  author  of  the  above  seven 
works.  Complete  in  one  octavo  volume  of  402  pages.  Price  Fifty 
cents ;  or  an  edition  on  finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth,  illustrated.  Price 
One  Dollar. 

VALENTINE  VOX.— LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  VALENTINE 
VOX,  the  Ventriloquist.  By  Henry  Cockton.  One  of  the  most 
humorous  books  ever  published.  Price  Fifty  cents ;  or  an  edition  on 
finer  paper,  bound  in  cloth.  Price  One  Dollar. 

PERCY  EFFINGHAM.  By  Henry  Cockton,  author  of  "  Valentine  Vox, 
the  Ventriloquist."  One  large  octavo  volume.  Price  50  cents. 

TEN  THOUSAND  A  YEAR.  By  Samuel  C.  Warren.  With  Portraits 
of  Snap,  Quirk,  Gammon,  and  Tittlebat  Titmouse,  Esq.  Two  large 
octavo  vols.,  of  547  pages.  Price  One  Dollar;  or  an  edition  on  Suer 
paper,  bound  in  cloth,  $1,50. 

CHARLES  J.  PETERSON'S  WORKS. 

AYLESFORD.  A  story  of  the  Refugees.  One  of  the  most  popu- 
lar books  ever  printed.  Complete  in  two  large  volumes,  paper  cover, 
Price  One  Dollar;  or  bound  in  one  volume,  cloth,  gilt.  Price  $1  25. 

CRUISING  IN  THE  LAST  WAR.    A  Naval  Story  of  the  War  of  1812. 

First  and  Second  Series.     Being  the  complete  work,  unabridged.   By 
Charles  J.  Peterson.     228  octavo  pages.     Price  50  cents. 

GRACE  DUDLEY ;  OR,  ARNOLD  AT  SARATOGA.  By  Charles  J. 
Peterson.  Illustrated.  Price  25  cents. 

THE  VALLEY  FARM;  OR,  the  AUTOBIOGRAPHY  OF  AN  OR, 
PHAN.  A  companion  to  Jane  Eyre.  Price  25  cents. 


T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OP  PTTBIICATIONS.      7 

•— . i « 

EUGENE  SUE'S  NOVELS. 

THE  MYSTERIES  OF  PARIS;  AND  GEROLSTEIN,  the  Sequel  to  it 
By  Eugene  Sue,  author  of  the  "  Wandering  Jew,"  and  the  greatest 
work  ever  written.  With  illustrations.  Complete  in  two  large  volume*, 
octavo.  Price  One  Dollar. 

THE  ILLUSTRATED  WANDERING  JEW.  By  Eugene  Sue.  With 
87  large  illustrations.  Two  large  octavo  volumes.  Price  One  Dollar. 

THE  FEMALE  BLUEBEARD;  or,  the  Woman  with  many  Husband*. 
By  Eugene  Sue.  Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

FIRST  LOVE.    A  Story  of  the  Heart.    By  Eugene  Sue.    Price  Twenty. 

five  cents. 

WOMAN'S  LOVE.  A  Novel.  By  Eugene  Sue.  Illustrated.  Pri«« 
Twenty-five  cents. 

MAN-OF-WAR'S-MAN.  A  Tale  of  the  Sea.  By  Eugene  Sue.  Prict 
Twenty-five  cents. 

RAOUL  DE  SURVILLE;  or,  the  Times  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte  inJ810 
Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

SIR  E.  L.  BULWER'S  NOVELS. 

FALKLAND.  A  Novel.  By  Sir  E.  L.  Bulwer,  author  of  "  The  Roue, 
"  Oxonians,"  etc.  One  volume,  octavo.  Price  25  cents. 

THE  ROUE;  OR  THE  HAZARDS  OF  WOMEN.     Price  25  cents. 
THE  OXONIANS.    A  Sequel  to  the  Roue.    Price  25  cents. 
CALDERON  THE  COURTIER.    By  Bulwer.    Price  12*  cents. 

MRS.  GREY'S  NOVELS. 

Either  of  which  can  be  had  separately.  Price  25  cents  each.  They  fv 
printed  on  the  finest  white  paper,  and  each  forms  one  large  octavo  volume, 
complete  in  itself,  neatly  bound  in  a  strong  paper  cover. 

DUKE  AND  THE  COUSIN.  THE  YOUNG  PRIMA  DONNA. 

GIPSY'S  DAUGHTER.  THE  OLD  DOWER  HOUSB. 

BELLE  OF  THE  FAMILY.  HYACINTHE. 

SYBIL  LENNARD.  ALICE  SEYMOUR. 

THE  LITTLE  WIFE.  HARRY  MONK. 

MANOEUVRING  MOTHER.  MARY  SEAHAM.    250  page*. 
LENA    CAMERON ;   or,  the  Four  Price  50  cents. 

Sisters.  PASSION  AND  PRINCIPLE 
THE  BARONET'S  DAUGHTERS.  200  pages.  Price  50  cent.. 

GEOBGE  W.  M.  REYNOLD'S  WORKS. 

THE  NECROMANCER.  A  Romance  of  the  tiroes  of  Henry  the  Eighth. 
By  G.  W.  M.  Reynolds.  One  large  volume.  Price  76  cents. 

THE  PARRICIDE;  OR,  THE  YOUTH'S  CAREER  IN  CRIME.  By 
G.  W.  M.  Reynolds.  Full  of  beautiful  illustrations.  Price  50  cento. 

UFE  IN  PARIS;  OR,  THE  ADVENTURES  OF  ALFRED  DE  ROSANN 
IN  THE  METROPOLIS  OF  FRANCE.  By  G.  W.  M.  Reynold*. 
Full  of  Engravings.  Price  50  couts. 


8      T.  B.  PETERSON'S  LIST  OF  PUBLICATIONS. 
AINSWORTH'S  WORKS. 

JACK  SHEPPARD.— PICTORIAL  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OP 
JACK  SHEPPARD,  the  most  noted  burglar,  robber,  and  jail  breaker, 
that  ever  lived.  Embellished  with  Thirty-nine,  full  page,  spirited 
Illustrations,  designed  and  engraved  in  the  finest  style  of  art,  by 
George  Cruikshank,  Esq.,  of  London.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

ILLUSTRATED  TOAVER  OE  LONDON.  With  100  splendid  engravings. 
This  is  beyond  all  doubt  one  of  the  most  interesting  works  ever 
published  in  the  known  world,  and  can  be  read  and  re-read  with 
pleasure  and  satisfaction  by  everybody.  We  advise  all  persons  to 
get  it  and  read  it.  Two  volumes,  octavo.  Price  One  Dollar. 

PICTORIAL  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  GUY  FAWKES,  The 
Chief  of  the  Gunpowder  Treason.  The  Bloody  Tower,  etc.  Illustrated. 
By  William  Harrison  Ainsworth.  200  pages.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

THE  STAR  CHAMBER.  An  Historical  Romance.  By  W.  Harrison 
Ainsworth.  With  17  large  full  page  illustrations.  Price  50  cents. 

THE  PICTORIAL  OLD  ST.  PAUL'S.  By  William  Harrison  Ainsworth. 
Full  of  Illustrations.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

MYSTERIES  OF  THE  COURT  OF  QUEEN  ANNE.  By  William 
Harrison  Ainsworth.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

MYSTERIES  OF  THE  COURT  OF  THE  STUARTS.  By  Ainsworth. 
Being  one  of  the  most  interesting  Historical  Romances  ever  written. 
One  largo  volume.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

DICK  TURPIN.— ILLUSTRATED  LIFE  OF  DICK  TURPIN,  the 
Highwayman,  Burglar,  Murderer,  etc.  Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

HENRY  THOMAS.— LIFE  OF  HARRY  THOMAS,  the  Western  Burgla/ 
and  Murderer.  Full  of  Engravings.  Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

DESPERADOES.— ILLUSTRATED  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  07 
THE  DESPERADOES  OF  THE  NEW  WORLD.  Full  of  engravings. 
Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

NINON  DE  L'ENCLOS.— LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  NINON 
DE  L'ENCLOS,  with  her  Letters  on  Love,  Courtship  and  Marriage. 
Illustrated.  Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

THE  PICTORIAL  NEWGATE  CALENDAR;  or  the  Chronicles  of  Crime. 
Beautifully  illustrated  with  Fifteen  Engravings.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

PICTORIAL  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  DAVY  CROCKETT. 
Written  by  himself.  Beautifully  illustrated.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OF  ARTHUR  SPRING,  the  murderer  of 
Mrs.  Ellen  Lynch  and  Mrs.  Honora  Shaw,  with  a  complete  history  of 
hie  life  and  misdeeds,  from  the  time  of  his  birth  until  he  was  hung 
Illustrated  with  portraits.  Price  Twenty-five  cents. 

JACK  ADAMS.— PICTORIAL  LIFE  AND  ADVENTLRES OF  JACK 
ADAMS;  the  celebrated  Sailor  and  Mutineer.  By  Captain  Chauiier, 
author  of  "  The  Spitfire."  Full  of  illustrations.  Price  Fifty  cents. 

GRACE  O'MALLEY.— PICTORIAL  LIFE  AND  ADVENTURES  OP 
GRACE  O'MALLEY.  By  William  H.  Maxwell,  author  of  "  Wild 
Sports  in  the  West."  Price  Fifty  cents. 

SHE  PIRATE'S  SON.  A  Sea  Novel  of  great  interest.  Full  of  btautifu] 
illustrations.  Price  Twenty-five  cento. 


T.  B.  PETERSON'S 

WHOLESALE  AND  RETAIL 
Cheap  Book,  Magazine,  Newspaper,  Publishing 

and  Bookselling  Establishment,  is  at 
No.   1O2   Chestnut  Street,  Philadelphia. 


T.  B.  PETERSON  has  the  satisfaction  to  announce  to  the  public,  that  he  has  removed 
to  the  new  and  spacious  BROWN  STONE  BUILDING,  NO.  102  CILESTNUT  STREET, 
just  completed  by  the  city  authorities  on  the  Girard  Estate,  known  as  the  most  central 
and  best  situation  in  the  city  of  Philadelphia.  As  it  is  the  Model  Book  Store  of  the 
Country,  we  will  describe  it:  It  is  the  largest,  most  spacious,  and  best  arranged  Retail 
and  Wholesale  Cheap  Book  and  Publishing  Establishment  in  the  United  States.  It  is 
built,  by  the  Girard  Estate,  of  Connecticut  sand-stone,  in  a  richly  ornamental  style. 
The  whole  front  of  the  lower  story,  except  that  taken  up  by  the  doorway,  is  occupied  by 
two  large  plate  glass  windows,  a  single  plate  to  each  window,  costing  together  over  three 
thousand  dollars.  On  entering  and  looking  up,  you  find  above  yon  a  ceiling  sixteen 
feet  high ;  while,  on  gazing  before,  you  perceive  a  vista  of  One  Hundred  and  Fifty-Seven 
feet  The  retail  counters  extend  back  for  eighty  feet,  and,  being  double,  afford  counter- 
room  of  One  Hundred  and  Sixty  feet  in  length.  There  is  also  over  Three  Thousand  feet 
of  shelving  in  the  retail  part  of  the  stare  alone.  This  part  is  devoted  to  the  retail  busi- 
ness, and  as  it  is  the  most  spacious  in  the  country,  furnishes  also  the  best  and  largest 
assortment  of  all  kinds  of  books  to  be  found  in  the  country.  It  is  fitted  up  In  the  mos 
superb  style ;  the  shelvings  are  all  painted  in  Florence  white,  with  gilded  cornices  fix 
the  book  shelves. 

Behind  the  retail  part  of  the  store,  at  about  ninety  feet  from  the  entranoe,  is  th» 
counting-room,  twenty  feet  square,  railed  neatly  off,  and  surmounted  by  a  most  beauti- 
ful dome  of  stained  glass.  In  the  rear  of  this  is  the  wholesale  and  packing  department, 
extending  a  further  distance  of  about  sixty  feet,  with  desks  and  packing  counters  for  the 
establishment,  etc.,  etc.  All  goods  are  received  and  shipped  from  the  back  of  the  store, 
having  a  fine  avenue  on  the  side  of  Girard  Bank  for  the  purpose,  leading  out  to  Third 
Street,  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  and  block  up  the  front  of  the  store  on  Chestnut  Street. 
The  cellar,  of  the  entire  depth  of  the  store,  is  filled  with  printed  copies  of  Mr.  Peterson's 
own  publications,  printed  from  his  own  stereotype  plates,  of  which  he  generally  keepa 
on  hand  an  edition  of  a  thousand  each,  making  a  stock,  of  his  own  publications  alone, 
of  over  three  hundred  thousand  volumes,  constantly  on  hand. 

T.  B.  PETERSON  is  warranted  in  saying,  that  he  is  able  to  offer  such  inducements 
to  the  Trade,  and  all  others,  to  favor  him  with  their  orders,  as  cannot  be  excelled  by  any 
book  establishment  in  the  country.  In  proof  of  this,  T.  B.  PETERSON  begs  leave  to 
refer  to  his  great  facilities  of  getting  stock  of  all  kinds,  his  dealing  direct  with  all  the 
Publishing  Houses  in  the  country,  and  also  to  his  own  long  list  of  Publications,  consisting 
of  the  best  and  most  popular  productions  of  the  most  talented  authors  of  the  United 
States  and  Great  Britain,  and  to  his  very  extensive  stock,  embracing  every  work,  new  or 
old,  published  in  the  United  States. 

T.  B.  PETERSON  will  be  most  happy  to  supply  all  order*  for  any  books  at  all,  no 
matter  by  whom  published,  in  advance  of  all  others,  and  at  publishers'  lowest  cash 
prices.  He  respectfully  invites  Country  Merchants,  Booksellers,  Pedlar*,  Canvassers, 
Agents,  the  Trade,  Strangers  in  the  city,  and  the  public  generally,  to  call  and  examine 
his  extensive  collection  of  cheap  and  standard  publications  of  all  kinds,  comprising  a 
most  magnificent  collection  of  CHEAP  BOOKS,  MAGAZINES,  NOVELS,  STANDARD 
and  POPULAR  WORKS  of  all  kinds,  BIBLES,  PRAYER  BOOKS,  ANNUALS,  GIFT 
BOOKS,  ILLUSTRATED  WORKS,  ALBUMS  and  JUVENILE  WORKS  of  all  kinds, 
GAMES  of  all  kinds,  to  suit  all  ages,  tast<>s,  etc.,  which  he  is  selling  to  his  customers 
and  the  public  at  much  lower  prices  than  they  can  be  purchased  elsewhere.  Being  lo- 
cated at  No.  102  CHESTNUT  Street,  the  great  thoroughfare  of  the  city,  and  BUYINQ 
his  Rtock  outright  in  large  quantities,  and  not  selling  on  commission,  be  can  and  will 
•ell  them  on  such  terms  as  will  defy  all  competition.  Call  and  examine  our  stock,  yon 
will  find  it  to  be  the  best,  largest  and  cheapest  in  the  city ;  and  you  will  also  be  sure  to 
Ind  all  the  best,  latest,  popular,  and  cheapest  works  published  in  this  country  or  <•>!•»• 
wfcere,  for  sale  at  the  lowest  prices. 

j£g-  Jail  in  person  and  examine  our  stock,  or  send  your  orders  by  mail  dirict,  to  the 
QiLSAP  BOOKSELLING  and  PUBLISHING  ESTABLISHMENT  of 

T.  B.  PETERSON, 

•1  No.  10*  Chewtnut  Street,  Philadelphia 


CREAT  INDUCEMENTS  FOR  1858! 


IS  THE  TIME  TO  GET  TTP  CLUBS..gl 

PETERSONS  MAGAZINE 

THE  BEST  IN  THE  WORLD  FOR  LADIES! 


TWO  DOLLARS  A  YEAR. 


This  popular  monthly  Magazine  will  be  greatly  improved,  as  well  as  enlarged  for  1858. 
It  will  contain  over  900  pages  yearly  ;  from  25  to  30  Steel  Plates  ;  and  600  Wood  En- 
gravings. This  is  more,  proportionately,  than  any  periodical  gives.  The  News- 
paper Press  calls  this  Magazine  "THE  CHEAPEST  IN  THE  WORLD." 

ITS    THRILLING   ORIGINAL    STORIES. 

The  editors  are  Mrs.  Ann  S.  Stephens,  author  of  "The  Old  Homestead,"  "Fashion 
and  Famine,"  and  Charles  J.  Peterson,  author  of  "Kate  Aylesford,"  "The  Valley 
Farm,"  etc.,  etc.  ;  and  they  are  assisted  by  Mrs.  E.  D.  E.  N.  Southworth,  author  of  "The 
Lost  Heiress,"  "Vivia,"  "Retribution,"  etc.,  etc.  ;  by  Alice  Carey,  Mrs.  Denison,  Miss 
Townsend,  Miss  Fairfield,  Carry  Stanley,  Clara  Moreton,  Hetty  Holyoke,  and  by  all  the 
most  popular  female  writers  of  America.  New  talent  is  continually  bei  ng  added,  regard- 
less of  expense,  so  as  to  keep  "Peterson's  Magazine"  unapproachable  in  merit.  Mo- 
rality and  virtue  are  always  inculcated. 


ITS  SUPERB  MEZZOTINTS,  AND  OTHER  STEEL  ENGRAVINGS, 

Are  the  best  published  anywhere  ;  and  at  the  end  of  each  year  are  alone  worth  the 
subscription  price. 

COLORED  FASHION  PLATES  IN  ADVANCE, 


Coioired  Jqffeirns  foi"  £h)bh>ideMj,  etc. 


Eight  Copies  for  One  Year,  -  $10.00 
Twelve  Copies  for  One  Year,  15.00 
Sixteen  Copies  for  One  Year,  20.00 


Embroidery  Patterns  engraved  for  every  Number,  with  instructions  how  to  work 
them ;  also,  Patterns  in  Knitting,  Inserting,  Broiderie  Anglaise,  Nettipg,  Frivolite,  Lace- 
making,  etc.,  etc.  Also,  Patterns  for  Sleeves,  Collars,  and  Chemisettes ;  Patterns  in 
Bead-work,  Hair-work,  Shell-work ;  Handkerchief  Corners ;  Names  for  Marking  and 
Ini'-ials.  Occasionally,  SUPERB  COLORED  PATTERNS  FOR  EMBROIDERT,  ETC.,  are  given, 
each,  of  which,  at  a  retail  store,  would  cost  Fifty  Cents.  A  piece  of  fashionable  Music  is 
published  every  month.  Also,  New  Receipts  for  Cooking,  the  Sick-room,  the  Toilet, 
Nursery,  etc.,  etc. ;  and  everything  required  in  the  Household. 

TERMS:— ALWAYS    IJV 

One  Copy  for  One  Year,  -  -  $2.00 
Three  Copies  for  One  Year,  -  5.00 
Five  Copies  for  One  Year,  -  7.50 

PREMIUMS  FOR  MAKING  UP  CLUBS— Three,  Five,  Eight,  Twelve, 
or  Sixteen  copies  make  a  Club.  To  every  person  yetting  up  a  Club  of  Three,  and  remit- 
ting Five  Dollars ;  or  a  Club  of  Five,  and  remitting  Seven  Dollars  and  a  Half;  or  a  Club 
of  Eight,  and  remitting  Ten  Dollars;  we  will  send,  gratis,  a  copy  of  our  "Casket  for 
1858,"  a  book  of  costly  Engravings,  40  in  number.  To  every  person  iretting  up  a  Club 
of  Twelve,  and  remitting  Fifteen  Dollars ;  we  will  send  either  an  extra -copy  of  the  Ma- 
gazine for  1858,  or  a  "Casket,"  as  the  remitter  may  prefer.  To  every  person  getting  up 
a  Club  of  Sixteen,  and  remitting  Twenty  Dollars,  we  will  send  both  the  "Casket"  and 
an  extra  copy  for  ISoS.  Or  to  any  person  getting  up  a  Club,  and  entitled  to  the  "Casket," 
we  will  send,  if  preferred,  a  copy  of  the  Magazine  for  1S.57. 

Kg-  Any  person  may  get  up  a  Club.  Specimens  sent  gratuitously,  if  written  for, 
post-paid. 

»,  postpaid,  CHARLES  J.  PETERSON, 

No.    306    CHESTNUT    ST..    PHILADELPHIA.,. 


University  of  California 

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Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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A    000  046  498    2 


